athena

you have so much love to share with the world.

[deerfawnn]

𝜗ৎ ATHENA she/her. twenty. infj.

♡ pope cody's fawn. coming of age movies. ballet flats. snoopy lover. taylor russell. southern gothic. cameras. alaska youngs twin. callico critters. bambi. full time reader. lottie matthews lover. trinkets. angel bunny girl.

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☆ series : your hands are cold

[deerfawnn]

drunk confessions, tender hearts

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you content warnings: reader's drunk & dizzy, pope's abandoment issues, reader's very insecure, mention of reader braiding her hair, craig slander, shirtless pope bc i love shirtless pope, pope carries reader for a bit a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with another bambi!reader and pope fic that is also sort of a pope cody character study!! also my favorite trope ever!! bc i love it when reader gets so drunk she says and does things she really shouldn't. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 5.9k

Pope didn't plan on showing up at Craig's bar. 

He wasn't up for it, but he had nothing else to do, and you were nowhere to be found. He tried texting you, just checking on you (or so he told himself; in truth, he really just wanted to talk to you because he felt so inexplicably lonely in Smurfs house), but you didn't respond to any of his messages.

So he decided to pay a visit to his brother and ask him if he had any fresh information on the job they were currently working on. When he stepped in, the bar was packed. Obviously, at 10pm no one would anticipate anything different. 

Pope looked around, examining each face. No threat, no threat, no threat.

This is why he disliked going places without you. When you were with him, all he felt the need to was to focus on you, think about you, and hope that you were okay and feeling safe. He didn't have to think about hundreds of people crammed into a tight space, drinking and yelling right in his face. 

Pope headed to the bar and waited for Deran to notice him. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, his ears ringing from the loud and drunken sounds around him. It felt like his brain was buzzing from the volume. It almost hurt, and as much as he envied Deran's bright future sometimes, he despised being in here. 

He quickly withdrew his hands, noticing how dirty the counter was, a scowl forming between his brows. Disgusted, he looked at his fingertips, briefly considering going to the bathroom to wash them. But the bathroom was much filthier, so Pope just dropped his hands to his sides, fingers twitching with discomfort. 

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his youngest brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

"I know," he whispered against your hair. 

[clarktologist]

ㅤㅤㅤ A SECRET YOU CAN'T KEEP!

summary: you have always been multiple things to frank langdon; the girl next door, his best friend's little sister, his friend. but when you ask to stay with him in pittsburgh, the impending doom that he feels at the idea of admitting to all of his wrongdoings starts to convince him that you've always been a little more than that. pairing: brother's best friend!frank langdon x girl next door!reader tags: afab reader, slight (a lot of) character study of young & present day frank langdon, a couple of flashbacks, lots of mentions of drugs / addiction / rehab, mentions and descriptions of anxiety (frank), divorcee & dog dad!frank langdon, kind of angst & kind of fluff depending on who you ask, feelings confession, frank is way too soft for it all. word count: 7.2k notes: i really went crazy turning frank langdon into my own ken doll to be whatever i wanted him to be. based on a request here. please reblog if you enjoy! also, check out my masterlist!

Looking back at his childhood, Frank wonders how he ended up the way he did.

Back then, when his hair was always unruly and he hadn’t even considered being a doctor yet, everything seemed to come easy to him. He was consistently active outside of his house, going on runs or heading to the park or playing sports, and the amount of friends he had seemed neverending. His social life was at an all-time high, a consistent revolving door of friend groups and girlfriends and people who knew of him without actually knowing him.

Over the last year and a half or so, he has felt himself become more of a recluse. On the nights without Tanner and Penny, he sits in the emptiness of an apartment he’s yet to fully call home, his mind coming up with sounds to try and fill the empty hollow space. Many nights are spent alone on his couch, fingers combing through the downy fur of Petunia. 

At least he had gotten to keep the dog in the divorce.

He spends a lot of time on his phone these days. Scrolling through his camera roll and letting the corner of his lips twitch in amusement at the numerous photos he keeps of Tanner and Penny, flicking through social media and slowly feeling his brain rot away, whatever it takes to keep his mind busy and away from his situation.

Tonight, he lays on the couch, Petunia tucked into the crook between his outstretched legs despite how large she has gotten in the past year. The weight of her against his body is reassuring – a reminder that he’s still loved despite it all, even if it was mainly by his spur-of-the-moment dog. One hand drags a soothing line along the crease between her eyes while the other scrolls through social media, half-lidded in that weird liminal space between boredom and mildly entertained.

Just as he’s about to finally set the device down and let his brain wash away with Survivor re-runs, his phone buzzes with a singular text, peaking his interest again. The name on the message is what has him sitting up so fast that it startles the golden retriever on his lap.

If he looked back on any time in his past, Frank would find you. He had been great friends with your older brother, especially since your family had lived next door for as long as he could remember. He had spent a lot of time at your house or at social mixers that your parents tended to throw for the neighborhood, smiling at the side of your brother as you had bickered as siblings do.

It wasn’t like you had spent a lot of alone time together. A quick conversation in the kitchen as he came down for a snack, a playful taunt from his lips when you had tried a new outfit or hairstyle, splashing you with the hose when you were just watching them gallivant outside during the hot summers.

One of the last times Frank saw you, you were still a teenager. Wide-eyed and yet still believing that the entire world was against you, friendship bracelets littering your wrists and a streak of red in your hair from when your mother had finally allowed you to add just one color.

You had sat behind the shoulder of your brother, arms crossed over your chest as both of your families and numerous friends from the neighborhood crooned their sadness that he was leaving for college. The entire day of his going away party, you had stayed quiet and compliant, although you had never attempted to leave.

That night, as the crowd dwindled and everyone started cleaning up, you had curled one arm around his waist like you were afraid to touch him and murmured an “i’ll miss you” into his ribcage. He had simply pulled you closer until you were forced to add your other arm around him, squeezing you closer and whispering the secret right back into your hair. You’ve talked every now and then since he left. Your parents are still close to his own, which means he tends to see you every time he visits his family, although the two of you never mention the night he left. Sometimes, you’ll send him a quick text asking a medical question. 

How do you know if your sunburn is sun poisoning? 

What’s an emergency-room level fever? 

My finger is swollen but I can move it. Is it broken?

He always entertained the small bits of conversation he could grab from you, even when he had been with Abby. When she had asked about you, he had just called you his childhood friend’s younger sister, even if it made something churn in his stomach.

And now, after a few months of no medical inquiries hitting his inbox, there you are.

YOU: i have a question FRANK: you always do YOU: this isn’t about my health FRANK: didn’t know you could ask questions that weren’t about your health YOU: ha ha YOU: listen YOU: hold on. can i call you?

Frank sits up a little taller, passing an apologetic glance towards Petunia when she lets out an annoyed groan at how much he’s fidgeting. He looks around his apartment like you’re going to be able to see his cluttered living room through the phone before responding with the most nonchalant yes he can muster.

His phone rings only a few moments later, a young photo of you filling his screen from your contact. He answers after letting it vibrate once against his palm, clearing his throat before the microphone turns on. “Hello?”

“Frank!” His name comes out in a squeak. “Uh, hey. How are you?”

He can’t help the small smile that blooms, looking around his empty apartment. You weren’t filled in on his divorce yet, he assumed. “Peachy,” he lies easily. “What’s up?”

There’s rustling on your side of the line before a heavy sigh. “Hey, I need to ask you a favor. It’s big, and it’s okay if you don’t have an answer right now, but I just… I don’t know.” Your words are rushed, nervousness seeping through every word.

“Hey,” he coos calmly. “Stop freaking out or you’re gonna make me think you need help hiding a body.”

“Ha-ha.” A sarcastic response just like the one you had texted him. He grins again at the thought. “Okay. I’ll cut to it.”

Another heavy sigh seeps through the speaker, crackling in his ear. “Is there any way I can stay with you for a week? I know that you have Tanner and Penny, plus I don’t know how Abby will feel about it, but I’m waiting for my new place in Pittsburgh to open up, but my new job needs me to start this week and it won’t be available until Tuesday at the latest and I don’t really know how many nights at a hotel I can afford or mentally stand.”

Frank’s eyebrows raise so high on his forehead that he’s sure they’ve integrated themself into his hairline. His lips part, then close, then part again as he runs your rushed words through his head over and over. Then, he swallows, shaking his head. “You’re moving to Pittsburgh? I thought you were living with a boyfriend or something, a few minutes from home.”

“Uh, yeah.” You laugh, although it sounds strained. He can imagine you now, twirling a strand of hair around your pointer finger as you paced. He saw it a lot during the teenage years, watching you try to convince your parents through the phone that you really wanted to go to a friend’s sleepover, even though you were actually trying to sneak out to some house party. “No boyfriend anymore. No boyfriend, no home. Bye-bye. To Pittsburgh, I go, seeking employment opportunities.”

He’s quiet again for another moment, mulling it over. His thoughts run so fast that he finally peels himself off of his couch, taking a page out of your book and pacing along the line of his rug. 

He must’ve been quiet for way too long, because you speak again. “You can take your time to give me an answer. I’ll drive down there at the end of this weekend, so there’s a few days to think it over. I just wanted to ask in advance rather than show up on your doorstep.”

And thank God you didn’t. You’d find your way to “his” house and be greeted by his ex-wife, who still says his name with a slice of distaste. You’d find out from her about everything that’s happened in the past two years of his life – drug addiction, rehab, divorce, custody agreements, consistent loneliness minus man’s best friend, Petunia.

“Uh,” he says stupidly.

Everything he could say turns into dust on his tongue, unable to get out a single word. How does he explain all of this? That the charming teenager you once knew, who was consistently surrounded by good friends that were always willing to celebrate him, had lost his college sweetheart in a messy divorce after throwing his back out, getting addicted to benzos and almost losing his job?

Lord knows Frank has lost all of his ego at this point in his life, other than his promise of being a good doctor, but he can almost ensure that you liked who he was as a teenager. His childhood and teenage years were filled with your wide eyes, asking him to open jars for you or to drive you to some friend’s house. When your first boyfriend had broken up with you, he had been the one who had picked you up from his house, ignoring the squeeze in his chest at the sight of your red eyes as he promised not to tell your brother.

“Can we talk about it? When you come in on Sunday?” He asks. 

Three days. Three days is all he has to figure out what exactly he’s going to tell you. Three days to come to terms with the fact that you may never see him the same ever again.

He isn’t sure why he cares so much. His parents knew of his divorce, of his ten-month stint in rehab. It’d been hard enough to tell them, and he had survived, but telling you feels like an entire weight sitting on his chest.

Your next words come out too hopeful. “Yeah! Okay!” Then, with a grin so wide he can hear it without seeing your face, you make a last minute addition. “At least I get to see you once, even if Abby ends up saying no to me staying.”

Abby, Abby, Abby. Why did you feel the incessant need to bring her up? Even if he was still married to her, he had known you way before she had even existed, had had numerous conversations about topics that didn’t include her.

Instead of being annoyed about it, he chooses to instead stick to the happy feelings that you being excited to see him gave him. “Yeah. It’ll be good to hang out again,” he responds. “Can update me on what Adrian did to have you runnin’ from him.”

“Adam,” you correct. He knew that, of course, but he feels warm at the laugh that shortly follows. “I’ll happily get into that. My brother doesn’t allow me to talk about him much anymore, so I have a lifetime worth of bad stories and ruined memories and icks to rant about.”

Now, it’s Frank’s turn to laugh. “Noted. I will happily listen.”

“I know you will. You always did.” Your voice gets softer as you trail off. 

Warning bells go off in his head at the first fluttering beat of his heart. Oh, this is wrong. So, so wrong. 

Before you can say anything else and mess with his head more, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Alrighty, sunshine, I have to get to bed so I can get to my shift in time tomorrow. Text me on Saturday and we can figure out a place to meet, okay?”

You let out a soft groan into the phone, probably evidence of a late-night stretch. “Okay, Frank. Talk to you Saturday.”

“See you Sunday,” he responds in a murmur.

He’s not the one that hangs up.

For all of Friday, your name does not grace his phone. He checks every free moment that he gets during his shift, but each time he is met with a blank notification screen.  If it wasn’t for the fact that you sat at the top of his messages and call log, he’d be able to convince himself that he made the whole situation up. You weren’t moving to Pittsburgh, you weren’t asking to stay at his apartment, he didn’t have to finally owe up to all of his transgressions.

Every time Frank reminds himself of the fact, an uncomfortable feeling crawls up his spine until it settles in his chest, pressing down on his lungs until he is aware of every heartbeat. He feels foolish for the way he digs the heel of his palm into his sternum, pressing his eyes closed and trying to will his body to stop punishing him for his brain’s doing.

He’s never been good at being vulnerable. As a child, he’d split his knee open falling off of his bike just to get up a moment later, laughing until he wheezed despite the dull ache in his leg and the blood trickling down his calf. As a teenager, he’d met heartbreak and hard times with a persistent need to show how well he was doing despite it all, even if he was just proving it to himself.

And now, as an adult, he goes the route of just ignoring it. Letting himself indulge in the things that he knows he shouldn’t, not allowing anyone to see past the mirage he has set up. He’s Frank Langdon, MD, an excellent emergency medicine resident with a confidence big enough to outweigh any Olympic athlete.

Unfortunately, with you, he cannot act like everything is okay. He knows that the second he looks into your wide eyes, staring into a memory of what he used to have and what he used to be, everything will fizzle up like the spark at the end of a detonating cord. You’ve always brought out his honesty, a personal truth serum in the form of billowy hair and flavored lipgloss.

Saturday morning, it rains in Pittsburgh. He doesn’t get to see it much due to being in the hospital all day, but the smell of petrichor seeps in the ambulance bay and water droplets cling to the hair of everyone who comes through the doors. Whenever he gets a free chance, he sits in the bay, listening to the rain hit the concrete and letting his mind dull for a moment.

It’s late, moonlight filtering through dark clouds to barely illuminate the flooded street. The thunderstorm that’s been threatening to arrive all week has finally decided to make its dramatic entrance, just in time to add upon Frank’s soured mood.

His mother would throw a fit if she saw what he was doing now. Clothes soaked and stuck to his skin, his hoodie doing absolutely nothing to keep the cold out, perched on his family’s roof. It’d been too easy to climb out of the window in his bedroom, especially with everything in his head screaming at him to just get out of the house.

Now, he sits in the rain, arms wrapped around his knees as he watches the raindrops glide down the shingles and into the gutter. All the collected water pours out into his yard, creating a larger and larger puddle as the night goes on.

He’s not sure how long he’s been out here, listening to the soft patter of the rain and the frequent booms of thunder. His mind has been more occupied by other things, such as the heavy scolding he had gotten from his coach after tonight’s game, or the passive-aggressive brush-off he had gotten from his girlfriend when he had tried to invite her out to the diner afterwards.

It was stupid, how much the sport controlled every aspect of his life. He had no intention of becoming a D1 athlete, and the only reason he had committed to the team in the first place was due to the need for a social life and perhaps the chance at a scholarship. Instead, it had affected everything else in his life. His classmates and teachers opinion of him, his father’s pride, his schedule, his own self-esteem.

“You’re gonna catch a cold! Or get struck by lightning!”

Frank barely hears the yell over the downpour, head turning and eyes squinting to try and look through the mist. Your bedroom light sticks out like a lighthouse on the shore, backlighting your silhouette from where you lean out your window.

His brow furrows. “It is way past your bedtime!” he calls back. It’s all an assumption. He has absolutely no idea what time it is.

Rather than respond, you disappear away from the window. He’s just about to turn around and pretend you had never been there when your outline appears again, now in a thick coat. Before he can even think about what you may be doing, your foot peeks out of your window, finding the thick branch of the tree that stretches between your houses.

“Hey! No!” He scolds. Either his voice is carried away by the storm or you choose to ignore him, because a few minutes later, your boot-covered feet are atop his roof.

As soon as you find solid footing, you unfurl an umbrella that he hadn’t been able to see before. You clutch something to your chest as you slide over to where he sits, thigh pressing against his as you settle.

“Here,” you say. “I brought you a new sweatshirt so you don’t turn into an ice cube. It’s one of my brother’s, I think.”

You hold the umbrella up and pass the hoodie over to him. He palms it for a moment, stealing the warmth before glancing at you in his peripheral. “How am I supposed to change into this?”

“I won’t look, if that’s what you’re worried about. But, just a fair warning, I’ve already seen your bare torso plenty of times in the last years we’ve known each other.” The remark is deadpan, but even in the dark, he can see the amusement in your eyes.

He rolls his eyes, reaching over to gently nudge you in the side. Without another word, he reaches down to pull off his drenched hoodie, setting it beside him. His chest is bare for just a moment before he tugs the new hoodie on, arranging his body so that he doesn’t accidentally stick his now-dry sleeve back into the rain.

After he has it situated, Frank turns back to you. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

You squirm to make sure the both of you fit comfortably beneath the umbrella, pressing closer to Frank. If you notice the way you’re practically tucked into his side, you don’t give any inclination, and he’s not exactly itching to bring it up. 

“Don’t mention it,” you reply sheepishly. “You look sad enough without the wet dog look.”

A cold wind breezes over the two of you, a shudder wracking your body. Without thinking about it too hard, he raises his arm to drape it over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your bicep as he rubs up and down to create friction. Rather than fight, you sink into the touch, relaxing beneath his touch.

This was fine. This is what friends did, he lies.

“Why are you choosing to torture yourself with this weather?” You ask, forehead leaning against his chest. “We could be cozy in bed right now.”

You pause, then quickly add, “Our own beds. In our separate houses.”

He laughs, giving you a soft squeeze. The sound fades out slowly as he thinks more about your question, eyes looking out upon the neighborhood again. “Had a hard day.”

A knowing hum is your answer, plucking at the ends of your sleeves to keep your hands busy. “Because of the game?” You guess.

Now that you’re not shivering anymore, he drops his arm, palm flattening on the roof behind your hips. He’s not exactly ready to uncurl himself from you, but there had to be a bit of distance, for his sake. “Something like that.”

Your lips twitch in dissatisfaction at the answer, brow furrowing as you look up at him. As soon as he finally catches your eye, your palm covers his knee, ignoring the way his jeans stick to his skin. “You can talk about it if you want, Frank. Or even if you don’t want to and it’s just that it’ll help.”

A smile unfurls on his lips before he can stop it, a fond look eclipsing over his face. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you in for a hug and letting out a relieved sigh when you prop your chin on his shoulder. “I don’t need to but thank you, sunshine. I‘m glad you came out here.”

Your nose presses into his skin, breath brushing against the side of his neck. “Of course. Couldn’t let you catch a cold all on your own, you’d get lonely.”

After a moment, you finally pull back, lips spreading into a grin. “Wanna come over? We can watch a movie if you’re still not able to sleep.”

“I am not climbing across a tree into your room,” he immediately responds. Your face falls and he scrambles to add, “but you can come over to mine?”

Immediately, that grin is back, making him laugh. He pats at your arm playfully before grabbing the umbrella from you, gesturing towards his window. “Go ahead. I’ll keep you dry.”

Frank’s interrupted from his reminiscing by a few buzzes in his pocket, pulling out his phone with a hefty sigh. Almost like he’s summoned you, his screen is littered with multiple texts from you.

YOU: it is saturday YOU: we need to plan a place to meet tomorrow YOU: and by we, i mean you. i don’t live there YOU: what do you suggest?

He responds quickly with the location of some diner he used to frequent when he just got out of rehab, his second text a simple thumb’s up emoji and a question mark. The less words he used, the better, especially with the way all of his emotions tend to go on overdrive talking to you.

You respond quickly. It’s simple, an agreement and a note about how you were excited to see him, but it still makes his chest tighten.

That night, alone in his apartment yet again, Frank sits down on his couch with a journal on his lap. It’s still wrapped in the plastic, purchased brand new on his way home from work alongside the pack of pens resting next to his thigh. He glances down at Petunia, who’s draped herself over his feet in the exhaustion lingering from her nap, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought.

Finally, he presses his thumbnail into the plastic until it gives way, ripping the rest of it off soon after. He cracks open the pens next, curling his fingers around one and leaving the rest in the package.

He had journaled a lot during his time in rehab. His therapist had brought it up after he’d stonewalled her during his first few appointments, retreating into an invisible shell as he went through withdrawal and felt the dull pain in his back for the first time in what felt like ages. She’d ran the pad of her finger over the outside of the journal as she explained to him that it’d be good for him to get all of his feelings out, even if he continued to ignore her in person.

At first, he thought it was stupid. Writing until his hand cramped wouldn’t take back the fact that he was an addict, or that he craved these stupid pills that he thought he was only taking for a persistent pinched nerve, or that his wife had looked at him like some kind of criminal as she tucked a crying Tanner behind her back when he said goodbye. The cramps wouldn’t cover up the persistent ache in his chest that everything he had ever worked so hard to have and to keep had been wiped away by a stupid mistake, something that he could’ve controlled if he was even an ounce of a better man.

It started as letters to Abby. She never answered the ones that he actually sent, so he decided to stop embarrassing or restraining himself. He filled up page after page with his crimes and confessions, writing about their good memories in hopes of trying to push away the present. At the end of each letter, he’d tally up how many times he had written out an apology and try to push to add more the next time he wrote, as if any condolences would be enough to cover up what he had done.

Then, he branched out. He wrote to Dana and Robby and his parents, keeping all of the words hidden and safe and locked in his journal. Within the pages he could confirm that none of his words would be twisted by those who already thought negatively of him. He could just be the Frank Langdon he knew himself to be, even if his opinion got a bit shaky sometimes.

He wrote to you. After he had scrawled your name on the page in his doctor handwriting, he stared at it for a while, wondering what had possessed him to think of you in a time like this. Admittedly, he hadn’t remembered the last time you had crossed his mind and it wasn’t because you had shown up at a family event with a new boyfriend and a new hair color.

Rather than stop himself, he let himself write whatever came to mind. He wrote about all the times he had helped you out and you had said “I’m sorry,” until he pinky-promised you that he didn’t mind. A subconscious smile pulled at his lips when he wrote about the time his father had burnt the hot dogs on his grill for the fourth of July and you had still eaten the entire thing, even if he could see the grimace on your face with every bite. 

He talked about how it was now his turn to apologize to you. For not thinking of you as often now that he had moved away and gotten out of medical school. For all the times he had secretly judged you for all of your vices, such as your need for constant change or your inability to find your boyfriends interesting after a few months. For not being the perfect guy you always saw him as.

Frank’s newly eighteen. He sits on his roof, the same spot he’s gone to every single time he finds his mind to become a bit too much. It’s become a sanctuary without walls since that night you had crawled out here and sat with him, even if it ended in the both of you waking up with a cold when the morning light came in. Some nights, you still come out and join him, limbs pressed together as you both acted like they weren’t.

Like clockwork, you join him about ten minutes after he’s settled onto the shingles. You don’t even grace him with a greeting. You just sit down, pulling your knees to your chest and trying to find what his eyes have decided to focus on.

“The cardinal over there?” You guess.

He nods without looking at you. He doesn’t need to look at you, not when the wind brings your perfume to him like an offering and your body heat seeps through his clothes despite how cold your hands always tend to be. 

The both of you are quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the cars driving through the neighborhood or the planes flying overhead. Every once in a while, he catches you trying to find what he’s looking at, like a curious child.

You break the silence with a heavy sigh, head turning to look at him. He finally allows himself the grace to look at you, giving you a soft smile to show that he’s okay. 

“I’m going to miss you,” you confess. “While you’re away at school.”

Frank nods again, even though it’s not really a rebuttal to what you had said. Realizing his lack of response, he reaches out to wrap his fingers around your forearm, giving it a soft reassuring squeeze. “I’ll come back,” he promises. “I’m not gonna leave this place in the rearview mirror.”

Now it’s your turn to smile, eyes following his hand as he returns it back to his lap. “Good,” you reply. “Who else is gonna pick me up from bad dates and sneak me cigarettes?” That mischievous grin that you wear like a second skin, or like an armor depending on the conversation, pops up. 

“Some other sucker,” he retorts. 

That silence returns when your giggle ends, hanging over the both of you. Unable to sit in the silence, you break it with another confession.

“I always thought you were too cool for anything when I first met you.” Your thumb brushes over your kneecap, wrinkling and smoothening the fabric of your jeans. “Even as young as we were, you seemed like you didn’t want to hear anything from anyone. Always your way or the highway. And then you became friends with my brother and you were everywhere and you were such a nerd.”

You laugh at his eye roll, passing him a look that tells him to wait for your point and not say anything. “I realized you weren’t too cool very quickly. Your limbs were too lanky and you fumbled over your words and you overcompensated by holding onto that same oozing confidence I had seen the minute we had moved in.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip for a moment before you continue. “But even if you’re not as untouchable as I thought you once were, I still think you’re perfect, Frank.” Despite the raw way the words come out, you say them louder than your murmured confessions, sporting a wide grin. “I hope you remember that when you’re becoming a big hotshot doctor.”

Frank sighs as he runs his fingers over the fresh pages of his brand new notebook, listening to the sound of paper fluttering. He grips the pen in his hand tighter, finally cracking the spine of the journal as he peels it open on his lap.

For the first time since he left rehab, he writes.

On Sunday morning, Frank arrives at the diner half an hour early. As he settles into the booth, his fingers tighten around the bag he carries, glancing around like you’d pop up out of nowhere.

While he waits, regretting his decision to have come in early in order to avoid the awkwardness of an introduction, he finishes two glasses of water and asks for another refill. His body feels unbelievably hot and he feels fidgety, adjusting his position in his seat multiple times and squirming at the crack of leather that follows every time he moves.

Five minutes after the time the both of you had agreed upon, the bell above the door chimes. His head turns so fast that a tendon pops, eyes landing upon you.

He wasn’t expecting you to look the same. Every time he sees you, no matter how long or short your time apart has been, there’s something different about you. A new color added to your hair or a complete change, a new style of outfits, another decorative piercing. A new tattoo if you were feeling extra adventurous in some foreign country.

Even knowing that, his breath catches at the sight of you. His blue eyes are wide when you finally look at him, your face brightening while he looks like a deer in headlights. He tries to match your smile, but it’s very obviously shaky.

When you get closer, he finally stands up, hand propped on the back of the booth as he greets you. “Hey, stranger.”

He can not find a single trace of anxiety on your features as you grin, reaching out to jab your finger into his chest. “Says you,” you tease. You slip into the opposite side of the booth, palms flattening on the table. “You’re the one who’s too busy to come home these days. It’s been, what, two years or so?”

Frank’s chest tightens again. He sits down to hide the tremble in his knees, exhaling so hard that a napkin flutters. “It’s been, uh, a busy two years,” he responds. “Would’ve come out if I could.”

You grab a menu, already feeling at home in this diner you’ve never been to. “With what? Saving lives? Or is Abby keeping you busy?”

There’s her name again, falling off her lips as if you get a dollar for every time that she’s mentioned. He grabs his own menu to try and hide the shaking of his hands, holding it up to hide his face.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

“Abby and I aren’t together anymore,” he admits. He lets the words drop off of his tongue rather than trying to say them gently. He had tried the gentle approach with everyone else he has told and it had only ended up one of two ways – they either pitied him until he couldn’t take it anymore or felt disgusted by the fact that he let himself cave into his addiction.

He spares a glance at you again once there’s enough quiet to suffocate him. You stare at him, your menu now laying flat on the table, and he decides to just keep going while you’re stunned already to rip off the bandaid. “We divorced after I went to rehab.”

You physically recoil in surprise, blinking your eyes as you try to put together all of the information. “Okay.” You draw out the word, trying to fill the space as if you were afraid he’d suddenly drop another bomb. “That’s not what I was expecting out of this catch-up. I thought you were just going to tell me fun stories about working in an emergency room.”

To his surprise, you thread your fingers together, resting both of your elbows on the table and holding his eyes. “Do you want to explain, or leave it at that?”

Frank’s shoulders lower more and more as he spills it all. Now that the harsh facts are out there, it’s easier for him to let everything else spill out. The back injury, the benzos addiction, the fallout at work, the rehab and the divorce. He tries not to let the emotions of them seep through, tries to stick to just the facts, but there’s a few things that slip through the cracks.

It’s easy to spill his guts to you. His own personal truth serum.

When he finishes, he clears his throat, suddenly bashful. “And there’s one more thing.”

He finally reaches into the bag he brought along, fingers closing around the journals inside and pulling them out. Before he can second guess it, he slides them across the table, watching as your hands move to keep them from falling off. 

“Diaries?” you guess lightheartedly.

“Kind of.” Frank chuckles, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I wrote a lot in rehab. My therapist recommended it. There’s a, uh, letter in there. For you. It’s where the tab is.” 

His fingers flick at the sticky note that’s just peeking out from the pages, glancing up at you through his eyelashes. “I trust that you won’t dig through the entire thing, but it’s okay if you do. Just know you’ll probably know more about me than you want to.”

You beam up at him before rifling quickly through the pages, taking brief glances at the scrawlings on the pages before letting it shut again. “Are you sure, Frank? This seems really personal.” 

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, you’re about to stay with me, aren’t you? You’ll see enough of my bad moments this week, so we might as well start now.”

His flaws are completely forgotten as you lean forward, somehow brightening more. The glow of the sunlight through the window is nothing compared to the way you look right now. “Really? You’ll let me stay with you.”

A laugh bubbles out of him before he can stop it, shaking his head. “You’ve bugged me for most of my life, we can’t ruin the tradition now.”

With a huff, you grab the wadded up piece of paper from his straw before tossing it at his forehead, grinning like a madwoman. “Jerk.”

For the rest of the day, Frank helps you move whatever you need into the spare bedroom of his apartment. The both of you pick up where you left off the last time he saw you, bickering over who gets to pick up the larger items and bigger boxes – you because of Frank’s bad back or Frank because he wants to be a gentleman.

After a shared dinner of takeout and him watching you coo over Petunia for half an hour, he finally admits to you that he needs to sleep for work the next day and retreats to his bedroom. With a pep in his step from finally spending a night socializing instead of staring at meaningless social media posts, he showers and gets ready for bed, forcing his dog to roll over onto her side of the bed before settling beneath the duvet.

He’s halfway asleep when there’s a couple knocks at his door. Fatherly instincts have him immediately shooting up, startling Petunia awake. “Yeah?” He calls out tiredly as he runs his fingers through the dog’s fur, soothing her back to sleep.

The door opens to reveal you, donned in soft pajamas and hair pulled up out of your face. The sight of his journal in your hands has him leaning over to click on his bedside lamp, illuminating his room and you in a warm glow. “What’s wrong?”

You hover in the doorway for a moment, lips parted when no words come out. Your mouth closes as you step closer, sitting down on the edge of his bed near his legs. He doesn’t move.

“You didn’t need to apologize,” you finally say. “For all of it.”

Frank runs a hand through his hair, the other still petting Petunia to try and calm the heavy beating of his heart. “I felt… feel like I needed to,” he admits sheepishly.

You prop one knee up on the mattress, somehow getting even closer to him. He tries not to squirm at the familiarity of it all. “None of what you’ve gone through the last couple of years has been your fault, Frank,” you murmur. “Addiction is a disease, not something someone willingly puts themselves through. You did the work through rehab and therapy, which is an apology enough for me.”

Your fingers brush against his duvet, tracing shapes next to his covered knee. “Your letter was sweet.” You continue, watching your fingers. “I’d forgotten about a couple of those things. It was nice to be reminded. I’m surprised you remembered.”

“I’ve been known to have a freakishly good memory,” he muses awkwardly.

That makes you finally look at him, giving him a soft grin. Your hand moves to curve over his knee, a shiver moving down his spine at the contact. “Imagine my surprise when I get to the end, my eyes hurting from squinting at your doctor handwriting, and I find out that –”

“ – that I wanted to kiss you.” He finishes the sentence before you can say the words. “The night of my going away party, when you told me that you were going to miss me again. I wanted to kiss you, because most people hadn’t even told me once and you had told me three times. I wanted to kiss you that night because I had wanted to kiss you many nights before that and never had.”

Frank sits up, hand finally leaving Petunia to grab yours and pull it away from his knee. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, giving a small smile when you lean into his palm. Your cheeks are warm beneath his touch, like only your hands are destined to be cold. Maybe it’s because they’re meant to be held by him, he thinks.

He leans forward until his nose brushes against your cheek. “No boyfriend?” He whispers against your skin. Just checking.

“No boyfriend,” you breathe out.

As soon as the last syllable leaves your tongue, he kisses you, seizing the opportunity of your lips still being parted. He kisses you like he’s trying to steal the air from your lungs, hand curling around the back of your neck to pull your lips closer.

He only pulls away when Petunia nudges at his elbow, jealous of the attention not being on her anymore, laughing breathlessly. He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re wrong to say that I didn’t need to apologize. I have to apologize for not kissing you sooner.”

You copy his breathless laugh, leaning back to breathe some of your own air. “I’ll take that apology,” you respond. You press your lips together to try and hide your giddy smile, staring at him for just a moment.

This is everything he’s ever wanted, he thinks. You’re beautiful like this, freshly kissed by him and euphoric, bathed in the aureate light of his lamp. Being here with you won’t fix any problem that he’s created, but it is the first thing that’s felt right in a very long time.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you stand, still clutching his journal in your hand. “Okay. I’m going to bed.”

Frank scrambles at your sudden pull away, sitting up further, much to the chagrin of the dog laying her head on his thigh. “You’re going to bed? Your bed?”

You stop at the doorway, turning to grin at him. “I’ve bugged you all of your life. We can’t ruin the tradition now,” you mock. 

With that, you give him a small wave, closing his bedroom door behind you.

He lets out an amused scoff at the click of his door, staring at it for a few moments to make sure you were serious and not just pulling his leg. When he faintly hears the sound of your bedroom door shutting, he groans, falling back onto his pillow and letting Petunia drape herself back over his torso. Then, he laughs, raising his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

And when you tell him that your future living arrangement fell through due to a mold infestation, leaving you homeless in Pittsburgh, he’s quick to tell you to stay.

[deerfawnn]

He’s never been good at being vulnerable. As a child, he’d split his knee open falling off of his bike just to get up a moment later, laughing until he wheezed despite the dull ache in his leg and the blood trickling down his calf. As a teenager, he’d met heartbreak and hard times with a persistent need to show how well he was doing despite it all, even if he was just proving it to himself.

this is exactly how i picture langdon as a kid omg.

this is so so so so so amazing. one of my fav langdon fics EVERRRRRRR

[deerfawnn]

i miss frank langdon.

[deerfawnn]

how about going to sleep on the couch after a disagreement with frank but he’s unable to sleep without being next to you

new start

pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, mention of rehab + frank's back pain, a/n: guys this turned into a langdon character study and i'm very sorry about it. but i hope you like it nonetheless. wc: 2.8k

You didn't think the night would end with you aggressively brushing your teeth as Frank muttered under his breath in the bedroom about it not being his fault.

This morning had been good. You'd woken up to his arm around your waist, his face pressed into the back of your neck, and for once, he wasn't already halfway out the door. The two of you grabbed breakfast at that fancy little place you loved so much. Then he dropped you off at work with a smile and a promise. "Dinner tonight. Your show. I'll grab takeout."

It was nice.

Right now was not so nice.

You practically punched the toothbrush back into the glass. You spat out the toothpaste, dragged the back of your hand across your mouth, and just stood there, staring down at the sink.

Frank was now standing in the doorway. His hair was messier than usual, pushed back by fingers that had been running through it all night. "Look. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I swear."

You almost laughed. Because here's the thing, and you knew this, you accepted this when you fell for a man in scrubs, breakfast and dinner on the same day was a miracle. That was the kind of alignment of schedules that happened maybe once every three months if the stars cooperated and no one in the city of Pittsburgh decided to get sick or injured or die.

You almost couldn't sleep last night, smiling at the ceiling like an idiot, because for once, you were going to get two full meals with your boyfriend.

Except Frank was a no show.

He texted around 5 pm, just as you were packing up your desk, excitedly telling your coworker that yes, tonight's the night, we're actually doing Thai and the show and it's going to be great. The text said: "Car Crash. Gonna be late. Start without me. Love you."

You thought late meant 7 pm. Maybe 7:30 if it was bad.

You ordered the food at 7 pm. Sat down on the couch at 7:30. Watched the first episode alone at 8. Picked at cold noodles at 9. Texted him "you okay?" at 9:15. Got "still here." at 9:45. The second episode ended at 10. At 10:30, you put the leftovers in the fridge. At 10:45, you took a shower. At 11 pm, Frank walked through the door.

Eleven. PM.

Instead of being a reasonable boyfriend, he thought it'd be smarter to be a reasonable doctor. Which you understood. God, you understood. You understood that Frank's job is literally about choosing other people over himself, and over you, every single day.

You would have understood if it hadn't been today.

"Night shift was already there, Frank," you finally said, and your voice came out more upset than angry. That was worse, probably. He could handle anger. Anger he could fight back against. But this was just hurt and you could see him not knowing what to do with it.

You walked past him and didn't touch him or look at him.

Frank would have preferred it if you had pushed him, because then at least he could feel like he got what he deserved. But you wouldn't do that, because you knew it would hurt him, actually physically hurt him.

He stared at you in the bedroom as you brushed your hair.

"It wasn't my fault," he finally said. "There was a car crash. I couldn't just—"

"You could have left at 7," you said quietly, still not looking at him. "You could have left at 8. You could have left at 9. Night shift was already there, Frank. They had it."

"They needed—"

"They needed a doctor. They didn't need you."

That landed. You saw it in the mirror and you finally turned around.

"You came home at 11 PM, Frank," you said, and your voice cracked just slightly on the number. "Eleven. PM."

You might sound silly to other people. Some of your coworkers, the ones with normal boyfriends who work normal jobs, they'd probably roll their eyes. Oh no, he was saving lives and you're mad about takeout?

"I'll make it up to you tomorrow." his voice softer now.

You looked at him standing in the doorway and you felt the fight drain out of you. "Yeah, yeah, sure," you mumbled, dropping the hairbrush on the dresser.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly and for a moment you almost believed he meant it, but then he kept going. "Really, but they really did need my help."

There it was. The but. He just couldn't help himself. Even now, he still felt the need to defend himself.

You stared at him. The silence stretched between you and you could see him wanting to fill it. Finally, you shook your head. "Good night, Frank."

You walked out of the bedroom, behind you, you heard him take a step forward, but you pulled the door shut between you.

Stay on your side.

Frank stared at the door. The guilt hit him tearing at all the walls he'd built. He felt sick to his stomach.

He knew following you wouldn't help. So he swallowed his guilt, grit his teeth and turned off the bedroom light. He laid down on the bed. The sheets were cold on his side as he stared at the ceiling.

The shadows from the streetlight outside made patterns up there. He'd memorized them months ago, back when you'd fall asleep with your head on his chest and he'd stay awake just to watch your pretty face.

He knew he shouldn't have stayed. Of course he knew. He wasn't stupid. He knew it the moment he watched Donnie grab his jacket at 7:30, clap him on the shoulder, and say "Night shift's here, Langdon. Go home to your girl."

He'd nodded, said he would and then he'd walked back inside instead. He knew it at 8 PM, when Samira gave him a weird look and asked if he was picking up an extra shift. He knew it at 9 PM, when his phone buzzed with your "you okay?" text and he typed back "still here." instead of "I'm sorry, I'm leaving now, I'll be home in twenty."

He knew it at 10 PM, when Abbott found him reviewing charts that didn't need reviewing and said "Langdon. Go home. That's an order."

But he couldn't help it.

Sometimes he just worried about spending too much time with you, especially ever since he'd come back from rehab. It was almost like he felt terrified to be with you. He brushed a hand over his face, groaning at his own stupidity.

It sounded horrible because he loved you so much. That was the whole problem. He loved you so much that the thought of losing you made him spiral and ever since rehab, that fear had gotten more insistent.

What if he wasn't the same as before? What if the version of him that came back from rehab wasn't the version you'd fallen in love with? What if you preferred the old Frank?

What if you didn't like him sober?

The thought had been eating at him for months. He'd convinced himself that you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to prove that rehab hadn't really fixed anything.

So yes, after seeing your sweet smile this morning at breakfast, he got scared. He got scared of being the reason it disappeared, so he backed off.

Guilt simmered in his stomach all night at work. He felt it with every patient he checked on and every minute that ticked past 7pm.

Frank felt sick. He felt sick at 10:15 and he especially felt sick when he'd walked through the door at 11 pm, already rehearsing apologies that he knew wouldn't be enough. He'd found you sitting alone on the couch, some movie playing on the tv that you clearly weren't interested in. You barely looked at him when he came in.

He felt sick then and he still felt sick now.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars wondering why he was the way he was.

An hour must have passed at that point. The clock on the nightstand glowed 12:47 am when he finally turned his head to look at it, and the numbers blurred for a second before he blinked them back into focus.

Finally, he got up out of bed. His back seized as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He'd been standing too long at work. His own fault, he shook his head. Karma for what he did to you. He stood up slowly, one hand braced on the nightstand, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

When it did, he opened the bedroom door quietly, just in case you were asleep.

You were curled up on the couch with your back toward the tv and your face pressed into the back of the couch. Your knees were tucked up toward your chest, dead asleep.

There was no blanket, just your sleep shorts and his old hoodie.

He stood there for a moment watching you before finally going back to the bedroom as quietly as he could, grabbing the blanket you both fought over when the apartment got cold and came back.

He unfolded the blanket and laid it over you. You stirred slightly but didn't wake up.

He hesitated, then settled down on the couch behind you, lowering himself slowly because his back was screaming at him now, every movement sending new complaints up his spine. He fit himself against the curve of your body anyway, his chest to your back, his knees tucked behind yours.

You didn't move, until he gently, put an arm under your waist and pulled you back to his chest.

You woke up startled. Your head lifted over your shoulder, hair falling across your face, eyes squinting in the dark. You finally saw his face properly, but Frank already had his eyes closed.

He didn't want to know if you looked angry or tired or disappointed or worst of all indifferent. He didn't think he could handle you looking at him like he didn't matter anymore.

"Frank," you mumbled groggily.

"I can't sleep without you," he whispered. He wasn't sure he meant to say the words at all.

He slowly opened his eyes. You had turned to see him properly now, your hair was a mess and you were staring at him as if saying that's it?

And then, like you couldn't help yourself, you pressed closer. Your hand came up to brush over his back, the way you always did before bed. He'd told you once that you helped with his back pain, made it disappear.

You weren't actually healing him. He knew that, but somehow, in some way he couldn't explain, it helped, even if it was only in his head.

"I'm really sorry for missing dinner," he whispered.

His blue eyes stayed fixed on yours, even though everything in him wanted to look away. He took a breath as his arm pulled you closer, his fingers pressing into the curve of your waist because he was getting nervous now. The kind of nervous he hadn't felt since rehab, when he'd had to sit in a circle of strangers and admit out loud that he wasn't okay.

His other hand came up to toy with your waistband, pulling at the elastic. It was a nervous habit you'd noticed months ago and never mentioned, because you knew pointing it out would only make him more self conscious.

You let him, smiling softly and that smile encouraged him to keep talking.

"M'worried about you spending time with me," he finally breathed out. Once he started, he couldn't stop. "I don't know how to act properly around you. What if I hurt you? What if you don't like me sober?" His voice cracked slightly on sober, the word feeling weird in his mouth. "What if all— my— what if all my charms gone?"

He grimaced at that. Charm. What a ridiculous word. What a ridiculous thing to worry about, like he'd ever been charming, like he'd ever been anything other than a mess in scrubs who happened to get lucky enough to find someone willing to put up with him.

"What if we spend so much time together and you realize there's actually nothing good about me?"

Yeah, there he said it.

He didn't think he was good.

He didn't think he was a good person. He thought he was someone who'd done good things, but that wasn't the same as being good.

Maybe that was why he overworked himself. Maybe that was why he stayed past his shift, because by forcing himself to save lives, he could pretend he was a good person.

Not a guy who stole meds from his own patients. No. A guy who saved lives. With every life he saved, that somehow had to be proof that he was good. Right?

You stared at him. The silence stretched between you for a moment, before you finally spoke.

"Frank, you could've told me all of this," you whispered gently as you kept brushing one hand along his back. His eyes flickered with surprise and shame, but he didn't look away. "You could've told me this the moment you came back."

You were slightly shocked, honestly. You didn't want to believe that he felt like this for so long. It made your chest hurt.

Frank dropped his hand from your waistband, instead he turned onto his back. His hands moved to his face, brushing up and down, fingers pressing into his eye sockets like he could push the thoughts out physically. He groaned lightly, while your hand moved from his back to his stomach, brushing softly there.

"I know, I know," he mumbled, voice muffled behind his hands. He dropped them finally and met your eyes. "And I know I hurt you by not telling you. And I'm so sorry." His voice cracked slightly on sorry. "God, you have no idea how sorry I am."

"I think I have some idea," you whispered after a while as you met his guilt filled eyes.

Frank swallowed hard and he had to blink a few times to keep his vision from going blurry. "I'll make it up to you. I swear to you—we'll do anything you want all week. I'll even—I'll even take the week off." He paused and then desperately added. "A month, even."

He wasn't sure if he could actually take a month off. The hospital would probably have something to say about that. Robby would definitely have something to say about that, but he'd try.

You giggled and the relief he felt upon hearing this sound, almost knocked the wind out of him. Your giggle was his favorite sound in the world and he'd been terrified tonight that he'd never hear it again.

"Frank, slow down," you smiled, brushing a hair strand out of his face. Your fingers lingered there for a second and he closed his eyes at the touch like a cat leaning into a pet. "First of all," you said gently, "you do not need to take the week off. It's fine. You'll make it up to me on your day off."

He opened his mouth to protest, because it wasn't fine, but you kept talking.

Your hand came up to his chest and you rubbed your thumb softly. "And you never ever have to worry about that other stuff." You knew he was too vulnerable right now for you to state everything explicitly again. You tilted your head slightly, making sure you had his eyes before you continued. "I love you, Frank. And that's never going to change. No matter what."

You could swear there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, but then his chin dropped toward his chest, and he nodded slowly.

"I love you too." was all he managed to say.

You smiled softly, and then you put your head on his chest and let your leg hook over his hip. He pressed a kiss to your head. His lips lingered there for a second, warm against your hair, and you felt the slight tremor in his breath.

"We'll grab breakfast tomorrow again," he whispered. "I'll wake up early. We can go to the diner a bit further away. Your favorite." Yeah. He'd shed a tear or two. You could hear it in his voice.

"And I'll come home early tomorrow," he continued, pressing another kiss to your hair. "I promise." He pulled you even closer to him. "And I'll even bring chocolate cookies with me."

You giggled and tilted your head up to look at him, your chin resting on his chest. "Good," you smiled.

[deerfawnn]

♡ bambi!reader

୨ৎ i want you to stay pope wishes he was your favorite cody brother.

୨ৎ a warm home you and pope don't have a real home, so you create one together, perhaps even without realizing it.

୨ৎ drunk confessions, tender hearts craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you

pinterest board ᝰ.ᐟ

[deerfawnn]

drunk confessions, tender hearts

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you content warnings: reader's drunk & dizzy, pope's abandoment issues, reader's very insecure, mention of reader braiding her hair, craig slander, shirtless pope bc i love shirtless pope, pope carries reader for a bit a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with another bambi!reader and pope fic that is also sort of a pope cody character study!! also my favorite trope ever!! bc i love it when reader gets so drunk she says and does things she really shouldn't. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 5.9k

Pope didn't plan on showing up at Craig's bar. 

He wasn't up for it, but he had nothing else to do, and you were nowhere to be found. He tried texting you, just checking on you (or so he told himself; in truth, he really just wanted to talk to you because he felt so inexplicably lonely in Smurfs house), but you didn't respond to any of his messages.

So he decided to pay a visit to his brother and ask him if he had any fresh information on the job they were currently working on. When he stepped in, the bar was packed. Obviously, at 10pm no one would anticipate anything different. 

Pope looked around, examining each face. No threat, no threat, no threat.

This is why he disliked going places without you. When you were with him, all he felt the need to was to focus on you, think about you, and hope that you were okay and feeling safe. He didn't have to think about hundreds of people crammed into a tight space, drinking and yelling right in his face. 

Pope headed to the bar and waited for Deran to notice him. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, his ears ringing from the loud and drunken sounds around him. It felt like his brain was buzzing from the volume. It almost hurt, and as much as he envied Deran's bright future sometimes, he despised being in here. 

He quickly withdrew his hands, noticing how dirty the counter was, a scowl forming between his brows. Disgusted, he looked at his fingertips, briefly considering going to the bathroom to wash them. But the bathroom was much filthier, so Pope just dropped his hands to his sides, fingers twitching with discomfort. 

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his youngest brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

"I know," he whispered against your hair. 

[queenofvelaris]

Oh my god they’re so sweet on each other I wanna die

[deerfawnn]

they are so so totally in love !!! <3

[deerfawnn]

drunk confessions, tender hearts

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you content warnings: reader's drunk & dizzy, pope's abandoment issues, reader's very insecure, mention of reader braiding her hair, craig slander, shirtless pope bc i love shirtless pope, pope carries reader for a bit a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with another bambi!reader and pope fic that is also sort of a pope cody character study!! also my favorite trope ever!! bc i love it when reader gets so drunk she says and does things she really shouldn't. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 5.9k

Pope didn't plan on showing up at Craig's bar. 

He wasn't up for it, but he had nothing else to do, and you were nowhere to be found. He tried texting you, just checking on you (or so he told himself; in truth, he really just wanted to talk to you because he felt so inexplicably lonely in Smurfs house), but you didn't respond to any of his messages.

So he decided to pay a visit to his brother and ask him if he had any fresh information on the job they were currently working on. When he stepped in, the bar was packed. Obviously, at 10pm no one would anticipate anything different. 

Pope looked around, examining each face. No threat, no threat, no threat.

This is why he disliked going places without you. When you were with him, all he felt the need to was to focus on you, think about you, and hope that you were okay and feeling safe. He didn't have to think about hundreds of people crammed into a tight space, drinking and yelling right in his face. 

Pope headed to the bar and waited for Deran to notice him. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, his ears ringing from the loud and drunken sounds around him. It felt like his brain was buzzing from the volume. It almost hurt, and as much as he envied Deran's bright future sometimes, he despised being in here. 

He quickly withdrew his hands, noticing how dirty the counter was, a scowl forming between his brows. Disgusted, he looked at his fingertips, briefly considering going to the bathroom to wash them. But the bathroom was much filthier, so Pope just dropped his hands to his sides, fingers twitching with discomfort. 

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his youngest brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

"I know," he whispered against your hair. 

[hehehehahahohohuhu]

"you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you." 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[deerfawnn]

your tags made me giggle and kick my legs. I'm SO SO glad you liked his characterization and pls YOU'RE SO KINDDDD i love you thank you so much 😭😭💝💝

[deerfawnn]

do you have a masterlist for the andrew/bambi things you have written?

i do not!! my pope fics are just in my normal masterlist, but i can definitely make one !! i've thought about it but wasn't too sure how many fics i'd be writing for those two, but i guess they areeee starting to pile up :)

[deerfawnn]

drunk confessions, tender hearts

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you content warnings: reader's drunk & dizzy, pope's abandoment issues, reader's very insecure, mention of reader braiding her hair, craig slander, shirtless pope bc i love shirtless pope, pope carries reader for a bit a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with another bambi!reader and pope fic that is also sort of a pope cody character study!! also my favorite trope ever!! bc i love it when reader gets so drunk she says and does things she really shouldn't. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 5.9k

Pope didn't plan on showing up at Craig's bar. 

He wasn't up for it, but he had nothing else to do, and you were nowhere to be found. He tried texting you, just checking on you (or so he told himself; in truth, he really just wanted to talk to you because he felt so inexplicably lonely in Smurfs house), but you didn't respond to any of his messages.

So he decided to pay a visit to his brother and ask him if he had any fresh information on the job they were currently working on. When he stepped in, the bar was packed. Obviously, at 10pm no one would anticipate anything different. 

Pope looked around, examining each face. No threat, no threat, no threat.

This is why he disliked going places without you. When you were with him, all he felt the need to was to focus on you, think about you, and hope that you were okay and feeling safe. He didn't have to think about hundreds of people crammed into a tight space, drinking and yelling right in his face. 

Pope headed to the bar and waited for Deran to notice him. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, his ears ringing from the loud and drunken sounds around him. It felt like his brain was buzzing from the volume. It almost hurt, and as much as he envied Deran's bright future sometimes, he despised being in here. 

He quickly withdrew his hands, noticing how dirty the counter was, a scowl forming between his brows. Disgusted, he looked at his fingertips, briefly considering going to the bathroom to wash them. But the bathroom was much filthier, so Pope just dropped his hands to his sides, fingers twitching with discomfort. 

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his youngest brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

"I know," he whispered against your hair. 

[deerfawnn]

working on a drunk!bambi reader fic and it's already at 6k words 🩷🩷🩷🩷 this is what happens when i can't shut up about pope and what i think goes on in his mind

[deerfawnn]

it's in the workssssssss. editing as we speak. do we want it tonighttttt !!!!

[deerfawnn]

working on a drunk!bambi reader fic and it's already at 6k words 🩷🩷🩷🩷 this is what happens when i can't shut up about pope and what i think goes on in his mind

[deerfawnn]

still thinking about the luck i had some weeks ago at the thrift store

[deerfawnn]

a warm home

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and pope don't have a real home, so you create one together, perhaps even without realizing it. content warnings: mention of smurf ( yes she needs a warning ), reader is lonely and so is pope, they're in love they just don't know it yet, this also turned into a pope cody character study #sorry a/n: i hit 5k!!!!!!!! i love you allll so so so so much seriously i'm so so so so endlessly grateful too all of you. writing makes me so happy and i have no idea what i would do without this blog!! gif credits to @abbotstudy !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc: 3.1k

Pope's never been trusted with good things. 

Something bad happened to his brothers? Get Pope. Smurf needed someone to disappear? Get Pope. Only bad things were entrusted to Pope's violent hands.

He'd be handed them with begging eyes and desperate voices. Please, Pope, do this for me. And he would do it. Of course, he would do it. He was born to do this.

Bloodied hands were a part of his life. There hadn't been a day when his hands weren't dirtied from the harm he'd done to others. Violence was all he was known for, and he wished he wasn't.

He wanted, like Deran, to be the careful guy, the guy with a plan, the guy with a future, the guy Craig would invite to hang out with, not simply the guy who would help him clean up his mess. He'd even rather be like Craig, the man who was always ready to party and try every drug on the planet. 

He'd rather be like anyone else.

He felt bitter when he remembered that it was all his role as the oldest brother that had assigned him this hell of a life. If he'd just been born last, he could have been different, felt different. Wouldn't have to taste the guilt on his tongue every day. Swallow the grief with every bite of Smurf's food. Didn't have to sleep with this ache in his chest, and didn't have to wake up with a hole in his heart.

Perhaps he could have raised a family, or established something for himself. He might have just fixed cars in his spare time, maybe even be graced with a smile from others around him. He could have walked through town, and not been stared at left and right. No one would have needed to know him. He could've simply been invisible.

Maybe that's why he liked you so much, liked to be around you all the time, because people didn't stare at you strangely or murmur around you. You were merely the pretty girl with the big heart and even bigger smile who enjoyed going for walks on the beach.

It was strange how different you were from each other.

He'd notice how you had to say a quiet 'excuse me' at every opportunity since people wouldn't pay attention to you. Even when you announced yourself, they would barely move for you, as if you were meant to be content with the minimal space they had left available for you. Despite everything, you'd continue to smile and express gratitude.

Unlike Pope, who people purposefully tried to avoid, trying not to touch him at any cost. They'd move away even if they didn't have to, just so they'd show him their hatred, remind him that he wasn't welcome. He knew that later on they'd gossip, talk in whispers about how Pope Cody walked by them today, how they feared for their life.

Invisibility seemed to be a curse for you, while it remained a wish for him. 

He watched your face fall whenever people ignored you. You hated people not acknowledging you. You hated recognizing people from high school and seeing them glance at you in passing like you were a stranger, unable to assign you a name, because they'd never cared enough to find out. You despised the fact that even if they did remember you, all they'd recall was you being the quiet girl in the back, that they'd cheat off and use for assignments, because she was too scared to say no.

It was so different from the image that Pope had, that sometimes he felt like the devil simply for keeping you company. Because despite it all, he knew how much you hated attention. 

All you wanted was to be acknowledged, not to be stared at.

He felt guilty when he'd help you get groceries and watch your eyes dart to the men staring at Pope with both angry and fearful expressions. You'd eye them cautiously, before glancing back at Pope, who would stare back to see how you would react. And all you would do was ask him if he thought this brand of cookies was nice. And he could feel his shoulder relax somewhat in relief. Relief he wasn't supposed to feel because there was nothing to be relieved about.

You were being put in an uncomfortable position because of him, yet you persevered because you were too kind for your own good. He could see your eyes dart back to the men, nervous, like you were afraid they'd start something, like you were afraid he'd start something. 

He couldn't possibly know that you were staring at them wishing they would stop, that for once in his life they'd let Pope have an outing with no stares. That, of course, you were uncomfortable, but all you wanted was for them to quit making Pope uncomfortable first.

It sat on your chest heavily, the knowing that this is what Pope's life was. At home, he could hardly take two steps without Smurf's piercing stare and outside, her influence remained, the poison she'd fed to everyone residing in every oceanside local.

Pope didn't have a home.

At least that's how you saw it. His home wasn't a real home, a home was supposed to be a place of warmth, one where you could go if you were restless, if you were feeling uneasy, to let your emotions out. Smurf's house, instead, was one where his emotions would pile up, where Pope was put through a ringer of emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, depression. 

It seemed like everyone else had an escape. Craig had his friends, Renn, parties. He had an active social life, he was liked and people looked at him with delight, asking him if he wanted to surf, if he was planning to throw a party later this week, if they could show up. Deran's bar had a life of its own. Not just socially, but also financially. And his own place. 

They both had places to go back to.

Pope had nothing and no one seemed to care about it.

So you tried to make your place as homely as you could. Every chance you got, you'd invite him over.

You'd never considered your home to be a home. It was too big and too empty. No one came and no one left. The kitchen only had your finger trips all over it, and so did every other inch of the place. You thought about getting a cat, but you figured you weren't good enough to take care of it. You were all over the place most of the time, had too much on your mind. 

So, instead, you kept cat food at your place. If a stray cat showed up you'd feed it, but that was it. No other heart was beating in your bed. No other living being breathed the same air as you. Everything was one. One frozen pizza. One toothbrush. One pile of laundry.

Neither you nor Pope realized how slowly it happened.

You'd been at the beach, sitting on a bench, thinking about putting your feet in the water, when you'd heard Pope talking on the phone. Ears perking up like a cat, you'd turned and spotted him immediately, leaning against his car, phone against his ear.

You didn't announce yourself, instead turning your body back to the beach, fingers restlessly tapping against your thigh as you watched a little girl be swept up by her feet by her dad and dragged to the water, where she screeched loudly and happily.

You felt a smile form on your face as you watched her and her father get drenched in the water. So distracted you didn't notice Pope approach you, able to recognize you merely from the back of your head. He stepped closer until he was standing right next to your bench.

You glanced to the side, already seemingly having expected him to notice you. Because he just always did.

You greeted him with a soft smile. "Hi Andrew."

"Hey," he glanced at the beach, eyes immediately locking onto the same father daughter duo you'd had been watching. His face didn't form a smile like yours had earlier. No, you saw something almost sad creep into his expression. And you hated to think that this reminded him of Lena.

You spoke up quickly. "What are you doing at the beach?" patting the bench next to you.

"Work," was all he said as he settled down next to you.

You'd been always content enough with that response. You didn't want to know the details, didn't care to know the specifics. You had a vague understanding that the Codys did things that did not strictly abide by the law, but you had no interest in finding out what exactly.

"You?" he asked, remembering his manners that he was so hard trying to work on when it came to you. 

He might've spent one night skipping one of his nature documentaries and instead looked for a channel with a romantic comedy playing. He'd figured he'd learn a thing or two from it, considering you were so very fond of theses movies. 

You always rented them at the library, and he remembered the first time you'd told him about it. He'd furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "People still use DVDs?" You'd been gravely offended.

He didn't learn anything from the movie, except that he was nothing like those men and that the happy endings just left him feeling hollow. 

"Work was tiring. Just needed to relax for a bit." You smiled at him, finally lifting your eyes from the girl who was still giggling around with her father.

Pope hummed. He would have loved to offer you money to help you out, he'd even tried to get you to move into one of his buildings. But you loved your apartment too much, telling him it wasn't much, but it was close to the beach and the ice cream stand you liked so much. So, instead, he resorted to helping you in small ways. Groceries, ice cream, your books, even paying for your library card.

He tried his hardest to be the gentleman he wished to be. 

No one in his life would describe him as a gentleman, he was sure he'd be laughed at if he ever even attempted to pretend like he was in front of his brothers, but he liked to be imagine that he was for you. He liked to pretend that maybe you looked at him and thought, oh he's chivalrous and generous, that he took care of you, that he was capable of it.

You looked back at the father daughter duo when you spoke. "Might make some pasta at home, you wanna join me?"

Pope turned his head to you, watching your profile, lit up by the sun setting behind you. "Yeah." he said, after taking some time to admire you.

You weren't amazing at cooking, but your food was, as cheesy at it sounded, cooked with love. And that was much better than whatever Smurf put on the table. Smurf's food was filling, but it never lived up to what your food did to him. 

The warmth he'd feel, the solace. He'd understood what comfort food was, the first time you'd made pasta. And it hadn't been amazing. Just normal pasta cooked by the young girl, who'd barely ever had to cook for more than herself.

But it had made him feel better than anything Smurf had ever forced him to stuff his mouth with.

The drive wasn't long. You'd walked to the beach, but Pope insisted on driving you home. So, you slid into the passenger seat, and he'd turned down the music he had been playing before. He'd noticed your tense expression, every time you stepped out of the car with Craig, as if he'd practically blasted your eardrums and made them bleed.

You shot him a grateful look, one he didn't meet because it would be too much for something so small. You always seemed to be grateful for little things. Little things that were just as simple as accommodating you or remembering something about you. Like you were hard to remember.

Pope couldn't remember a single minute since he first laid eyes on you where he hadn't thought of you. You had created a garden in his brain. Filled with flowers, blooming everywhere, while everyone else was growing poisonous vines that stretched throughout his body, killing him with every second. But not you; never you.

When you arrived, Pope turned off the car and quickly muttered. "Wait here."

You looked at him, confused, but you waited, and when you realized what he was doing, you let out a happy breath in the empty car.

Pope opened the door for you, and you smiled so wide at him, he almost believed the sun was rising instead of setting.

"Thank you," you jumped out the car, waiting for him to shut the door behind you.

An hour later, Pope was helping you with the pasta. You'd been worried about your cooking skills, so you'd asked him, and he'd been truthful. 

"It tastes good," he'd said, and you'd said his name in a slow voice. And he glanced behind you at the boiling pot. "I think it's just—needs a bit more… work." He'd tried to phrase it as nicely as he could, and it seemed to work because you'd giggled embarrassed.

"That bad, huh?"

"No—no, not that bad," he'd lifted his hand like pushing the thought away. "Good. Just—it could be better." He almost winced.

But you were still smiling, so he figured he hadn't hurt your feelings yet. "Go ahead then, Gordon Ramsay," you turned your body and pointed with your hand at the pot.

So here he was, stirring the pasta as you sat on the counter, already having given up on being useful. "Is it looking good?" you asked, your legs moving, achilles heel hitting the cabinet below you over and over again. Pope threw you his tenth concerned look this evening, not liking the way you kept hurting yourself. 

"Better than yours," he mumbled, and you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Andrew!"

And he looked at you, first to see if you were actually offended, but you were smiling and his lips quirked up. "It's the truth," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he wanted to hear it forever.

You jumped off the counter, still shaking your head with a smile. You opened the cabinets, grabbing two plates as you went to set the table. 

You didn't give it much thought as you picked out the plate Pope preferred, or the juice he liked most. He'd always appreciated that your fridge wasn't stocked with beer and drugs like his at home. You didn't think anything of it either, when you asked him if he was okay with using one of the smaller forks, because his fa orite was still in the dishwasher. Neither did he.

Neither of you thought about how you'd made yourself a routine. One in which he became frustrated with Smurf, and went to the beach, somehow knowing that you'd be there. Even if some days you weren't, he knew eventually you would be. The same way, you knew what part of the beach he liked most, where he liked to park his car most. The way coincidentally but also not, you both would meet up without officially planning on it.

You didn't notice how your apartment seemed to transform into a home by the second.

That the things in your cupboard were piling up, that everything had doubled. That the elderly cashier at your usual grocery store had stopped hesitating before reaching for the bill Pope was holding out, but instead watched the two of you with almost an almost nostalgic gleam in her eyes. She'd watch Pope quarrel with you over placing items in the grocery bag because that was his job, taking the bag out of your hands with a disappointing huff. She'd watch you bite your lip shyly, as you handed him the bag, purposefully letting your hand brush his. The cashier's eyes would soften as she'd watch the oldest Cody brother take care of you so gently, almost making her regret the looks she'd given him over the years.

Pope had found himself a home and your home had gotten less empty.

Even if at night, Pope never stayed.

You were happy enough with what you got, like when Pope washed the dishes, not allowing you to move a finger.

Once he was done, he dried his hands and headed for the door. "Thank you—for dinner," he said, almost forgetting to add the last two words. He was thankful for more than just the food.

"Don't have to thank me," you smiled. "You did all the cooking." 

He shook his head. "I just helped," he said, and you wanted to disagree, but he shot you a look.

You bit your lip. "See you around?" 

Pope nodded, and he waited for a second, watching you lean against your door. And you watched him. He looked so pretty, relaxed and content if you even dared to say. Happiness suited him. 

With a racing heart and on the verge of passing out from fear, you stepped closer, placing a hand on the side of his neck before gently kissing his cheek. "Thank you," you whispered. Thank you for spending time with me. Thank you for cooking. Thank you for being so considerate of me. Thank you.

Pope's head nearly tilted towards your palm, wishing for more warmth, more tenderness, more of you. But then you dropped it, too nervous, too scared to ever do anything courageous and stick with it.

He didn't say anything which frightened you. Why did you kiss him? You could still feel his face warm beneath your lips and his pulse quickening under your fingertips, and you almost wanted to do it again, despite Pope's lack of response. 

But then your gaze went to his face, and you noticed the smile there. Barely there, but there was something. And your worried expression faded into a cheerful one.

You took a step back, hand on the door, and he did too. "Bye Andrew." You finally broke the quiet between you, and he managed out a barely audible. "Bye," before turning and leaving

You'd kissed his cheek. You liked him. You were thankful for something he did for you.

He just cooked. He just fed you. All he did was feed you. He didn't even have to put so much effort into it. He didn't have to shed blood, sweat and tears for it.

He merely did what he normal does, and you were grateful. 

[zivistardust]

The moodboard? The fic? I love.

[deerfawnn]

Thank you sm!!!! 💝💝💝

[deerfawnn]

i have my driving test next week and i’m lowkey ( highkey ) terrified!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[deerfawnn]

a warm home

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and pope don't have a real home, so you create one together, perhaps even without realizing it. content warnings: mention of smurf ( yes she needs a warning ), reader is lonely and so is pope, they're in love they just don't know it yet, this also turned into a pope cody character study #sorry a/n: i hit 5k!!!!!!!! i love you allll so so so so much seriously i'm so so so so endlessly grateful too all of you. writing makes me so happy and i have no idea what i would do without this blog!! gif credits to @abbotstudy !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc: 3.1k

Pope's never been trusted with good things. 

Something bad happened to his brothers? Get Pope. Smurf needed someone to disappear? Get Pope. Only bad things were entrusted to Pope's violent hands.

He'd be handed them with begging eyes and desperate voices. Please, Pope, do this for me. And he would do it. Of course, he would do it. He was born to do this.

Bloodied hands were a part of his life. There hadn't been a day when his hands weren't dirtied from the harm he'd done to others. Violence was all he was known for, and he wished he wasn't.

He wanted, like Deran, to be the careful guy, the guy with a plan, the guy with a future, the guy Craig would invite to hang out with, not simply the guy who would help him clean up his mess. He'd even rather be like Craig, the man who was always ready to party and try every drug on the planet. 

He'd rather be like anyone else.

He felt bitter when he remembered that it was all his role as the oldest brother that had assigned him this hell of a life. If he'd just been born last, he could have been different, felt different. Wouldn't have to taste the guilt on his tongue every day. Swallow the grief with every bite of Smurf's food. Didn't have to sleep with this ache in his chest, and didn't have to wake up with a hole in his heart.

Perhaps he could have raised a family, or established something for himself. He might have just fixed cars in his spare time, maybe even be graced with a smile from others around him. He could have walked through town, and not been stared at left and right. No one would have needed to know him. He could've simply been invisible.

Maybe that's why he liked you so much, liked to be around you all the time, because people didn't stare at you strangely or murmur around you. You were merely the pretty girl with the big heart and even bigger smile who enjoyed going for walks on the beach.

It was strange how different you were from each other.

He'd notice how you had to say a quiet 'excuse me' at every opportunity since people wouldn't pay attention to you. Even when you announced yourself, they would barely move for you, as if you were meant to be content with the minimal space they had left available for you. Despite everything, you'd continue to smile and express gratitude.

Unlike Pope, who people purposefully tried to avoid, trying not to touch him at any cost. They'd move away even if they didn't have to, just so they'd show him their hatred, remind him that he wasn't welcome. He knew that later on they'd gossip, talk in whispers about how Pope Cody walked by them today, how they feared for their life.

Invisibility seemed to be a curse for you, while it remained a wish for him. 

He watched your face fall whenever people ignored you. You hated people not acknowledging you. You hated recognizing people from high school and seeing them glance at you in passing like you were a stranger, unable to assign you a name, because they'd never cared enough to find out. You despised the fact that even if they did remember you, all they'd recall was you being the quiet girl in the back, that they'd cheat off and use for assignments, because she was too scared to say no.

It was so different from the image that Pope had, that sometimes he felt like the devil simply for keeping you company. Because despite it all, he knew how much you hated attention. 

All you wanted was to be acknowledged, not to be stared at.

He felt guilty when he'd help you get groceries and watch your eyes dart to the men staring at Pope with both angry and fearful expressions. You'd eye them cautiously, before glancing back at Pope, who would stare back to see how you would react. And all you would do was ask him if he thought this brand of cookies was nice. And he could feel his shoulder relax somewhat in relief. Relief he wasn't supposed to feel because there was nothing to be relieved about.

You were being put in an uncomfortable position because of him, yet you persevered because you were too kind for your own good. He could see your eyes dart back to the men, nervous, like you were afraid they'd start something, like you were afraid he'd start something. 

He couldn't possibly know that you were staring at them wishing they would stop, that for once in his life they'd let Pope have an outing with no stares. That, of course, you were uncomfortable, but all you wanted was for them to quit making Pope uncomfortable first.

It sat on your chest heavily, the knowing that this is what Pope's life was. At home, he could hardly take two steps without Smurf's piercing stare and outside, her influence remained, the poison she'd fed to everyone residing in every oceanside local.

Pope didn't have a home.

At least that's how you saw it. His home wasn't a real home, a home was supposed to be a place of warmth, one where you could go if you were restless, if you were feeling uneasy, to let your emotions out. Smurf's house, instead, was one where his emotions would pile up, where Pope was put through a ringer of emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, depression. 

It seemed like everyone else had an escape. Craig had his friends, Renn, parties. He had an active social life, he was liked and people looked at him with delight, asking him if he wanted to surf, if he was planning to throw a party later this week, if they could show up. Deran's bar had a life of its own. Not just socially, but also financially. And his own place. 

They both had places to go back to.

Pope had nothing and no one seemed to care about it.

So you tried to make your place as homely as you could. Every chance you got, you'd invite him over.

You'd never considered your home to be a home. It was too big and too empty. No one came and no one left. The kitchen only had your finger trips all over it, and so did every other inch of the place. You thought about getting a cat, but you figured you weren't good enough to take care of it. You were all over the place most of the time, had too much on your mind. 

So, instead, you kept cat food at your place. If a stray cat showed up you'd feed it, but that was it. No other heart was beating in your bed. No other living being breathed the same air as you. Everything was one. One frozen pizza. One toothbrush. One pile of laundry.

Neither you nor Pope realized how slowly it happened.

You'd been at the beach, sitting on a bench, thinking about putting your feet in the water, when you'd heard Pope talking on the phone. Ears perking up like a cat, you'd turned and spotted him immediately, leaning against his car, phone against his ear.

You didn't announce yourself, instead turning your body back to the beach, fingers restlessly tapping against your thigh as you watched a little girl be swept up by her feet by her dad and dragged to the water, where she screeched loudly and happily.

You felt a smile form on your face as you watched her and her father get drenched in the water. So distracted you didn't notice Pope approach you, able to recognize you merely from the back of your head. He stepped closer until he was standing right next to your bench.

You glanced to the side, already seemingly having expected him to notice you. Because he just always did.

You greeted him with a soft smile. "Hi Andrew."

"Hey," he glanced at the beach, eyes immediately locking onto the same father daughter duo you'd had been watching. His face didn't form a smile like yours had earlier. No, you saw something almost sad creep into his expression. And you hated to think that this reminded him of Lena.

You spoke up quickly. "What are you doing at the beach?" patting the bench next to you.

"Work," was all he said as he settled down next to you.

You'd been always content enough with that response. You didn't want to know the details, didn't care to know the specifics. You had a vague understanding that the Codys did things that did not strictly abide by the law, but you had no interest in finding out what exactly.

"You?" he asked, remembering his manners that he was so hard trying to work on when it came to you. 

He might've spent one night skipping one of his nature documentaries and instead looked for a channel with a romantic comedy playing. He'd figured he'd learn a thing or two from it, considering you were so very fond of theses movies. 

You always rented them at the library, and he remembered the first time you'd told him about it. He'd furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "People still use DVDs?" You'd been gravely offended.

He didn't learn anything from the movie, except that he was nothing like those men and that the happy endings just left him feeling hollow. 

"Work was tiring. Just needed to relax for a bit." You smiled at him, finally lifting your eyes from the girl who was still giggling around with her father.

Pope hummed. He would have loved to offer you money to help you out, he'd even tried to get you to move into one of his buildings. But you loved your apartment too much, telling him it wasn't much, but it was close to the beach and the ice cream stand you liked so much. So, instead, he resorted to helping you in small ways. Groceries, ice cream, your books, even paying for your library card.

He tried his hardest to be the gentleman he wished to be. 

No one in his life would describe him as a gentleman, he was sure he'd be laughed at if he ever even attempted to pretend like he was in front of his brothers, but he liked to be imagine that he was for you. He liked to pretend that maybe you looked at him and thought, oh he's chivalrous and generous, that he took care of you, that he was capable of it.

You looked back at the father daughter duo when you spoke. "Might make some pasta at home, you wanna join me?"

Pope turned his head to you, watching your profile, lit up by the sun setting behind you. "Yeah." he said, after taking some time to admire you.

You weren't amazing at cooking, but your food was, as cheesy at it sounded, cooked with love. And that was much better than whatever Smurf put on the table. Smurf's food was filling, but it never lived up to what your food did to him. 

The warmth he'd feel, the solace. He'd understood what comfort food was, the first time you'd made pasta. And it hadn't been amazing. Just normal pasta cooked by the young girl, who'd barely ever had to cook for more than herself.

But it had made him feel better than anything Smurf had ever forced him to stuff his mouth with.

The drive wasn't long. You'd walked to the beach, but Pope insisted on driving you home. So, you slid into the passenger seat, and he'd turned down the music he had been playing before. He'd noticed your tense expression, every time you stepped out of the car with Craig, as if he'd practically blasted your eardrums and made them bleed.

You shot him a grateful look, one he didn't meet because it would be too much for something so small. You always seemed to be grateful for little things. Little things that were just as simple as accommodating you or remembering something about you. Like you were hard to remember.

Pope couldn't remember a single minute since he first laid eyes on you where he hadn't thought of you. You had created a garden in his brain. Filled with flowers, blooming everywhere, while everyone else was growing poisonous vines that stretched throughout his body, killing him with every second. But not you; never you.

When you arrived, Pope turned off the car and quickly muttered. "Wait here."

You looked at him, confused, but you waited, and when you realized what he was doing, you let out a happy breath in the empty car.

Pope opened the door for you, and you smiled so wide at him, he almost believed the sun was rising instead of setting.

"Thank you," you jumped out the car, waiting for him to shut the door behind you.

An hour later, Pope was helping you with the pasta. You'd been worried about your cooking skills, so you'd asked him, and he'd been truthful. 

"It tastes good," he'd said, and you'd said his name in a slow voice. And he glanced behind you at the boiling pot. "I think it's just—needs a bit more… work." He'd tried to phrase it as nicely as he could, and it seemed to work because you'd giggled embarrassed.

"That bad, huh?"

"No—no, not that bad," he'd lifted his hand like pushing the thought away. "Good. Just—it could be better." He almost winced.

But you were still smiling, so he figured he hadn't hurt your feelings yet. "Go ahead then, Gordon Ramsay," you turned your body and pointed with your hand at the pot.

So here he was, stirring the pasta as you sat on the counter, already having given up on being useful. "Is it looking good?" you asked, your legs moving, achilles heel hitting the cabinet below you over and over again. Pope threw you his tenth concerned look this evening, not liking the way you kept hurting yourself. 

"Better than yours," he mumbled, and you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Andrew!"

And he looked at you, first to see if you were actually offended, but you were smiling and his lips quirked up. "It's the truth," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he wanted to hear it forever.

You jumped off the counter, still shaking your head with a smile. You opened the cabinets, grabbing two plates as you went to set the table. 

You didn't give it much thought as you picked out the plate Pope preferred, or the juice he liked most. He'd always appreciated that your fridge wasn't stocked with beer and drugs like his at home. You didn't think anything of it either, when you asked him if he was okay with using one of the smaller forks, because his fa orite was still in the dishwasher. Neither did he.

Neither of you thought about how you'd made yourself a routine. One in which he became frustrated with Smurf, and went to the beach, somehow knowing that you'd be there. Even if some days you weren't, he knew eventually you would be. The same way, you knew what part of the beach he liked most, where he liked to park his car most. The way coincidentally but also not, you both would meet up without officially planning on it.

You didn't notice how your apartment seemed to transform into a home by the second.

That the things in your cupboard were piling up, that everything had doubled. That the elderly cashier at your usual grocery store had stopped hesitating before reaching for the bill Pope was holding out, but instead watched the two of you with almost an almost nostalgic gleam in her eyes. She'd watch Pope quarrel with you over placing items in the grocery bag because that was his job, taking the bag out of your hands with a disappointing huff. She'd watch you bite your lip shyly, as you handed him the bag, purposefully letting your hand brush his. The cashier's eyes would soften as she'd watch the oldest Cody brother take care of you so gently, almost making her regret the looks she'd given him over the years.

Pope had found himself a home and your home had gotten less empty.

Even if at night, Pope never stayed.

You were happy enough with what you got, like when Pope washed the dishes, not allowing you to move a finger.

Once he was done, he dried his hands and headed for the door. "Thank you—for dinner," he said, almost forgetting to add the last two words. He was thankful for more than just the food.

"Don't have to thank me," you smiled. "You did all the cooking." 

He shook his head. "I just helped," he said, and you wanted to disagree, but he shot you a look.

You bit your lip. "See you around?" 

Pope nodded, and he waited for a second, watching you lean against your door. And you watched him. He looked so pretty, relaxed and content if you even dared to say. Happiness suited him. 

With a racing heart and on the verge of passing out from fear, you stepped closer, placing a hand on the side of his neck before gently kissing his cheek. "Thank you," you whispered. Thank you for spending time with me. Thank you for cooking. Thank you for being so considerate of me. Thank you.

Pope's head nearly tilted towards your palm, wishing for more warmth, more tenderness, more of you. But then you dropped it, too nervous, too scared to ever do anything courageous and stick with it.

He didn't say anything which frightened you. Why did you kiss him? You could still feel his face warm beneath your lips and his pulse quickening under your fingertips, and you almost wanted to do it again, despite Pope's lack of response. 

But then your gaze went to his face, and you noticed the smile there. Barely there, but there was something. And your worried expression faded into a cheerful one.

You took a step back, hand on the door, and he did too. "Bye Andrew." You finally broke the quiet between you, and he managed out a barely audible. "Bye," before turning and leaving

You'd kissed his cheek. You liked him. You were thankful for something he did for you.

He just cooked. He just fed you. All he did was feed you. He didn't even have to put so much effort into it. He didn't have to shed blood, sweat and tears for it.

He merely did what he normal does, and you were grateful. 

[deerfawnn]

a warm home

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and pope don't have a real home, so you create one together, perhaps even without realizing it. content warnings: mention of smurf ( yes she needs a warning ), reader is lonely and so is pope, they're in love they just don't know it yet, this also turned into a pope cody character study #sorry a/n: i hit 5k!!!!!!!! i love you allll so so so so much seriously i'm so so so so endlessly grateful too all of you. writing makes me so happy and i have no idea what i would do without this blog!! gif credits to @abbotstudy !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc: 3.1k

Pope's never been trusted with good things. 

Something bad happened to his brothers? Get Pope. Smurf needed someone to disappear? Get Pope. Only bad things were entrusted to Pope's violent hands.

He'd be handed them with begging eyes and desperate voices. Please, Pope, do this for me. And he would do it. Of course, he would do it. He was born to do this.

Bloodied hands were a part of his life. There hadn't been a day when his hands weren't dirtied from the harm he'd done to others. Violence was all he was known for, and he wished he wasn't.

He wanted, like Deran, to be the careful guy, the guy with a plan, the guy with a future, the guy Craig would invite to hang out with, not simply the guy who would help him clean up his mess. He'd even rather be like Craig, the man who was always ready to party and try every drug on the planet. 

He'd rather be like anyone else.

He felt bitter when he remembered that it was all his role as the oldest brother that had assigned him this hell of a life. If he'd just been born last, he could have been different, felt different. Wouldn't have to taste the guilt on his tongue every day. Swallow the grief with every bite of Smurf's food. Didn't have to sleep with this ache in his chest, and didn't have to wake up with a hole in his heart.

Perhaps he could have raised a family, or established something for himself. He might have just fixed cars in his spare time, maybe even be graced with a smile from others around him. He could have walked through town, and not been stared at left and right. No one would have needed to know him. He could've simply been invisible.

Maybe that's why he liked you so much, liked to be around you all the time, because people didn't stare at you strangely or murmur around you. You were merely the pretty girl with the big heart and even bigger smile who enjoyed going for walks on the beach.

It was strange how different you were from each other.

He'd notice how you had to say a quiet 'excuse me' at every opportunity since people wouldn't pay attention to you. Even when you announced yourself, they would barely move for you, as if you were meant to be content with the minimal space they had left available for you. Despite everything, you'd continue to smile and express gratitude.

Unlike Pope, who people purposefully tried to avoid, trying not to touch him at any cost. They'd move away even if they didn't have to, just so they'd show him their hatred, remind him that he wasn't welcome. He knew that later on they'd gossip, talk in whispers about how Pope Cody walked by them today, how they feared for their life.

Invisibility seemed to be a curse for you, while it remained a wish for him. 

He watched your face fall whenever people ignored you. You hated people not acknowledging you. You hated recognizing people from high school and seeing them glance at you in passing like you were a stranger, unable to assign you a name, because they'd never cared enough to find out. You despised the fact that even if they did remember you, all they'd recall was you being the quiet girl in the back, that they'd cheat off and use for assignments, because she was too scared to say no.

It was so different from the image that Pope had, that sometimes he felt like the devil simply for keeping you company. Because despite it all, he knew how much you hated attention. 

All you wanted was to be acknowledged, not to be stared at.

He felt guilty when he'd help you get groceries and watch your eyes dart to the men staring at Pope with both angry and fearful expressions. You'd eye them cautiously, before glancing back at Pope, who would stare back to see how you would react. And all you would do was ask him if he thought this brand of cookies was nice. And he could feel his shoulder relax somewhat in relief. Relief he wasn't supposed to feel because there was nothing to be relieved about.

You were being put in an uncomfortable position because of him, yet you persevered because you were too kind for your own good. He could see your eyes dart back to the men, nervous, like you were afraid they'd start something, like you were afraid he'd start something. 

He couldn't possibly know that you were staring at them wishing they would stop, that for once in his life they'd let Pope have an outing with no stares. That, of course, you were uncomfortable, but all you wanted was for them to quit making Pope uncomfortable first.

It sat on your chest heavily, the knowing that this is what Pope's life was. At home, he could hardly take two steps without Smurf's piercing stare and outside, her influence remained, the poison she'd fed to everyone residing in every oceanside local.

Pope didn't have a home.

At least that's how you saw it. His home wasn't a real home, a home was supposed to be a place of warmth, one where you could go if you were restless, if you were feeling uneasy, to let your emotions out. Smurf's house, instead, was one where his emotions would pile up, where Pope was put through a ringer of emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, depression. 

It seemed like everyone else had an escape. Craig had his friends, Renn, parties. He had an active social life, he was liked and people looked at him with delight, asking him if he wanted to surf, if he was planning to throw a party later this week, if they could show up. Deran's bar had a life of its own. Not just socially, but also financially. And his own place. 

They both had places to go back to.

Pope had nothing and no one seemed to care about it.

So you tried to make your place as homely as you could. Every chance you got, you'd invite him over.

You'd never considered your home to be a home. It was too big and too empty. No one came and no one left. The kitchen only had your finger trips all over it, and so did every other inch of the place. You thought about getting a cat, but you figured you weren't good enough to take care of it. You were all over the place most of the time, had too much on your mind. 

So, instead, you kept cat food at your place. If a stray cat showed up you'd feed it, but that was it. No other heart was beating in your bed. No other living being breathed the same air as you. Everything was one. One frozen pizza. One toothbrush. One pile of laundry.

Neither you nor Pope realized how slowly it happened.

You'd been at the beach, sitting on a bench, thinking about putting your feet in the water, when you'd heard Pope talking on the phone. Ears perking up like a cat, you'd turned and spotted him immediately, leaning against his car, phone against his ear.

You didn't announce yourself, instead turning your body back to the beach, fingers restlessly tapping against your thigh as you watched a little girl be swept up by her feet by her dad and dragged to the water, where she screeched loudly and happily.

You felt a smile form on your face as you watched her and her father get drenched in the water. So distracted you didn't notice Pope approach you, able to recognize you merely from the back of your head. He stepped closer until he was standing right next to your bench.

You glanced to the side, already seemingly having expected him to notice you. Because he just always did.

You greeted him with a soft smile. "Hi Andrew."

"Hey," he glanced at the beach, eyes immediately locking onto the same father daughter duo you'd had been watching. His face didn't form a smile like yours had earlier. No, you saw something almost sad creep into his expression. And you hated to think that this reminded him of Lena.

You spoke up quickly. "What are you doing at the beach?" patting the bench next to you.

"Work," was all he said as he settled down next to you.

You'd been always content enough with that response. You didn't want to know the details, didn't care to know the specifics. You had a vague understanding that the Codys did things that did not strictly abide by the law, but you had no interest in finding out what exactly.

"You?" he asked, remembering his manners that he was so hard trying to work on when it came to you. 

He might've spent one night skipping one of his nature documentaries and instead looked for a channel with a romantic comedy playing. He'd figured he'd learn a thing or two from it, considering you were so very fond of theses movies. 

You always rented them at the library, and he remembered the first time you'd told him about it. He'd furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "People still use DVDs?" You'd been gravely offended.

He didn't learn anything from the movie, except that he was nothing like those men and that the happy endings just left him feeling hollow. 

"Work was tiring. Just needed to relax for a bit." You smiled at him, finally lifting your eyes from the girl who was still giggling around with her father.

Pope hummed. He would have loved to offer you money to help you out, he'd even tried to get you to move into one of his buildings. But you loved your apartment too much, telling him it wasn't much, but it was close to the beach and the ice cream stand you liked so much. So, instead, he resorted to helping you in small ways. Groceries, ice cream, your books, even paying for your library card.

He tried his hardest to be the gentleman he wished to be. 

No one in his life would describe him as a gentleman, he was sure he'd be laughed at if he ever even attempted to pretend like he was in front of his brothers, but he liked to be imagine that he was for you. He liked to pretend that maybe you looked at him and thought, oh he's chivalrous and generous, that he took care of you, that he was capable of it.

You looked back at the father daughter duo when you spoke. "Might make some pasta at home, you wanna join me?"

Pope turned his head to you, watching your profile, lit up by the sun setting behind you. "Yeah." he said, after taking some time to admire you.

You weren't amazing at cooking, but your food was, as cheesy at it sounded, cooked with love. And that was much better than whatever Smurf put on the table. Smurf's food was filling, but it never lived up to what your food did to him. 

The warmth he'd feel, the solace. He'd understood what comfort food was, the first time you'd made pasta. And it hadn't been amazing. Just normal pasta cooked by the young girl, who'd barely ever had to cook for more than herself.

But it had made him feel better than anything Smurf had ever forced him to stuff his mouth with.

The drive wasn't long. You'd walked to the beach, but Pope insisted on driving you home. So, you slid into the passenger seat, and he'd turned down the music he had been playing before. He'd noticed your tense expression, every time you stepped out of the car with Craig, as if he'd practically blasted your eardrums and made them bleed.

You shot him a grateful look, one he didn't meet because it would be too much for something so small. You always seemed to be grateful for little things. Little things that were just as simple as accommodating you or remembering something about you. Like you were hard to remember.

Pope couldn't remember a single minute since he first laid eyes on you where he hadn't thought of you. You had created a garden in his brain. Filled with flowers, blooming everywhere, while everyone else was growing poisonous vines that stretched throughout his body, killing him with every second. But not you; never you.

When you arrived, Pope turned off the car and quickly muttered. "Wait here."

You looked at him, confused, but you waited, and when you realized what he was doing, you let out a happy breath in the empty car.

Pope opened the door for you, and you smiled so wide at him, he almost believed the sun was rising instead of setting.

"Thank you," you jumped out the car, waiting for him to shut the door behind you.

An hour later, Pope was helping you with the pasta. You'd been worried about your cooking skills, so you'd asked him, and he'd been truthful. 

"It tastes good," he'd said, and you'd said his name in a slow voice. And he glanced behind you at the boiling pot. "I think it's just—needs a bit more… work." He'd tried to phrase it as nicely as he could, and it seemed to work because you'd giggled embarrassed.

"That bad, huh?"

"No—no, not that bad," he'd lifted his hand like pushing the thought away. "Good. Just—it could be better." He almost winced.

But you were still smiling, so he figured he hadn't hurt your feelings yet. "Go ahead then, Gordon Ramsay," you turned your body and pointed with your hand at the pot.

So here he was, stirring the pasta as you sat on the counter, already having given up on being useful. "Is it looking good?" you asked, your legs moving, achilles heel hitting the cabinet below you over and over again. Pope threw you his tenth concerned look this evening, not liking the way you kept hurting yourself. 

"Better than yours," he mumbled, and you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Andrew!"

And he looked at you, first to see if you were actually offended, but you were smiling and his lips quirked up. "It's the truth," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he wanted to hear it forever.

You jumped off the counter, still shaking your head with a smile. You opened the cabinets, grabbing two plates as you went to set the table. 

You didn't give it much thought as you picked out the plate Pope preferred, or the juice he liked most. He'd always appreciated that your fridge wasn't stocked with beer and drugs like his at home. You didn't think anything of it either, when you asked him if he was okay with using one of the smaller forks, because his fa orite was still in the dishwasher. Neither did he.

Neither of you thought about how you'd made yourself a routine. One in which he became frustrated with Smurf, and went to the beach, somehow knowing that you'd be there. Even if some days you weren't, he knew eventually you would be. The same way, you knew what part of the beach he liked most, where he liked to park his car most. The way coincidentally but also not, you both would meet up without officially planning on it.

You didn't notice how your apartment seemed to transform into a home by the second.

That the things in your cupboard were piling up, that everything had doubled. That the elderly cashier at your usual grocery store had stopped hesitating before reaching for the bill Pope was holding out, but instead watched the two of you with almost an almost nostalgic gleam in her eyes. She'd watch Pope quarrel with you over placing items in the grocery bag because that was his job, taking the bag out of your hands with a disappointing huff. She'd watch you bite your lip shyly, as you handed him the bag, purposefully letting your hand brush his. The cashier's eyes would soften as she'd watch the oldest Cody brother take care of you so gently, almost making her regret the looks she'd given him over the years.

Pope had found himself a home and your home had gotten less empty.

Even if at night, Pope never stayed.

You were happy enough with what you got, like when Pope washed the dishes, not allowing you to move a finger.

Once he was done, he dried his hands and headed for the door. "Thank you—for dinner," he said, almost forgetting to add the last two words. He was thankful for more than just the food.

"Don't have to thank me," you smiled. "You did all the cooking." 

He shook his head. "I just helped," he said, and you wanted to disagree, but he shot you a look.

You bit your lip. "See you around?" 

Pope nodded, and he waited for a second, watching you lean against your door. And you watched him. He looked so pretty, relaxed and content if you even dared to say. Happiness suited him. 

With a racing heart and on the verge of passing out from fear, you stepped closer, placing a hand on the side of his neck before gently kissing his cheek. "Thank you," you whispered. Thank you for spending time with me. Thank you for cooking. Thank you for being so considerate of me. Thank you.

Pope's head nearly tilted towards your palm, wishing for more warmth, more tenderness, more of you. But then you dropped it, too nervous, too scared to ever do anything courageous and stick with it.

He didn't say anything which frightened you. Why did you kiss him? You could still feel his face warm beneath your lips and his pulse quickening under your fingertips, and you almost wanted to do it again, despite Pope's lack of response. 

But then your gaze went to his face, and you noticed the smile there. Barely there, but there was something. And your worried expression faded into a cheerful one.

You took a step back, hand on the door, and he did too. "Bye Andrew." You finally broke the quiet between you, and he managed out a barely audible. "Bye," before turning and leaving

You'd kissed his cheek. You liked him. You were thankful for something he did for you.

He just cooked. He just fed you. All he did was feed you. He didn't even have to put so much effort into it. He didn't have to shed blood, sweat and tears for it.

He merely did what he normal does, and you were grateful. 

[reidsmemory]

gosh this was so sweet! love reading abt these soft moments w andrew :( healing in a way ❤️‍🩹

[deerfawnn]

thank you so much!! and i completely agree :( i love writing these moments so much. he deserved it all !!!