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Writing on the Wall

Andrew "Pope" Cody x female!oc

Prologue - Imitation, Caricature, & Good Business

summary: Pope wondered if she was an angel sent down to relieve him of his suffering, even if he didn't deserve it. It was the only explanation for the woman who appeared when he needed her most. Unknowingly, he dragged an angel into the dark with no plan on how to get her out on the other side. All Pope knew was, she had to survive. One way or another, she had to survive. Whatever the cost. Amina was never supposed to fall head first into another life of chaos. She was never supposed to get involved. Never supposed to fall in love. Now, she'd do anything to make sure she wasn't alone when she came out the other side. cw: MDNI 18+ (not super explicit, more waxing poetic, but I don't want minors interacting with my stories regardless), suicide ideation/thoughts/attempts, canon-typical violence & gore & manipulation (i mean, this is AK after all), canon-divergence, domestic violence, slow-ish burn, hurt & comfort, angst, trauma, ptsd, ocd, neurodivergent!pope (no one can convince me otherwise), protective!pope, obsessive!pope, season two!pope, sensitive!oc, bamf!oc, forger!oc, age difference (late twenties reader), original female character, entire cody clan, chosen family trope, third person POV, will add more tags as series progresses word count: 4k

a/n: Hello, lovelies! Welp, despite telling myself I would wait to post the prologue like a good, responsible writer... Alas, I could not. I'm just too excited to share this with you guys! Please beware that this story starts pretty heavy with an interrupted suicide attempt by Pope (scene from 2x12). Please take care of yourself first and don't read if that is too much! You'll notice closer to the end of the chapter, I switch between using Pope to using Andrew. This is purposeful and it will continue throughout the story to represent Pope/Andrew's state of mind. I'm still trying to decide if I'm going to cross post on archiveofourown... Anyway, all the love and happy reading ♡

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A skeptic is a person who, when he sees the handwriting on the wall, claims it is a forgery. The quote was vacantly scrawled on the wall, filling up the bedroom with an ominous forlornness. The saying was ironic in more ways than one. A meager laugh bubbled up in the back of her throat despite the desolation of the studio apartment she just paid for in full.

It was enveloped in darkness, only lit by the full moon shining through the window. The ridiculousness of the dark, long-since-dried blood stain in the middle of the carpet made her delirious. The grungy tan of the walls reminded her of the sparse walls of every room she grew up in, where she conjured up fantastical delusions to make everything seem all right.

Drops of water echoed throughout the room coming from the leaky faucet in the kitchen. She traded one shitty life for another, but at least it was hers to live. At least, she had one shitty little window overlooking the sea. Oceanside was her new beginning. She might’ve been running, but nothing had ever felt better. The faint sound of crashing waves in the distance only solidified her decision further.

And for a moment, all the screaming in her head went quiet.

Standing in the middle of her one bedroom apartment, she stared at the writing on the wall, wondering if she was a believer or cynic. Her mother’s voice rang in her head, “A good forgery is but an imitation. A great one blurs the line between true artistry and caricature. But a perfect one… Well, that’s just good business.”

She shivered at the memory. Perfection. Her life revolved around that one word for so long. It was rarely achieved, but when it was, no drug could touch that kind of high. It was addictive, and when mixed with the reward of affection, there was nothing more disastrous. It was why she stayed so long. Too afraid to do what needed to be done to leave, but also too cowardly to give up the high.

She gripped her necklace–a circlet with a hand-wrought gold mockingbird in the center taking flight. It was the only valuable thing of hers she refused to sell, a reminder and a contingency if all else failed.

Memories faded in and out of her mind, nightmares really. The blood, the screams, the money, the forgotten painting… The writing on the wall. She physically shook her head, nails biting into the flesh of her wrist to drag her back to reality. A sharp breath left her lungs, wild eyes darting around her shoebox of an apartment to find anything that could take her mind away from all the demons gnawing at her heels.

It took her less than a second for her gaze to snag on the crashing waves through the window. Only two streets away. She could make it. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She swiped her keys off the kitchen counter and made for the door.

She ran towards the only thing powerful enough to protect her.

Pope Cody’s gun molded to his hand like it belonged there. Like there was no other life he could live that didn’t involve the violence he sowed. His fingers flexed against the handle. The low concrete wall he sat on siphoned out any warmth he had left in his body. The sound of the waves uselessly crashed in the background noise of his mind, but it couldn’t drown out Cath’s muffled screams. Couldn’t drown out the sound of his shoveling. Or Lena calling out for her mom in her sleep.

All the little details clawed their way through his head. Over and over and over again. And he couldn’t make them stop. Couldn’t make any of it stop. Forgiveness wasn’t meant for people like him. It didn’t matter if he thought Cath was hurting his family. It didn’t matter. He still killed her.

She’s talking to the cops, Andrew.

Pope shook his head, trying to derail Smurf’s voice from his head. Smurf lied.

Get out. Get out.

Amy’s body crumbled under the weight of his truth. His violence. Pope got his answer. There was no forgiveness for him in this life or the next. Her sobs echoed in his head, merging with Cath’s struggling groans and his own broken gasps for breath.

He needed it to stop. All of it.

The sharp click of his gun cocking filled the night, lost to the crashing waves. It was second nature. He didn’t even have to think. When he lifted the gun to his temple, muzzle cold against his skin, he wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner? It was easier than he thought it would be. His arm wasn’t heavy with the weight of his decision. His mind didn’t try to stop him. It was simple.

Pope’s finger moved to the trigger. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was the moonlight striking a path through the ocean. Maybe, if he had been strong enough to do just that–strike his own path–none of this would’ve happened. Things would be different, but he hadn’t and they weren’t.

“It’s too nice a night for that.”

His eyes snapped open. Pope’s whole body tensed, gun falling from his temple only to train itself momentarily on the person who interrupted him. Muscle memory was too ingrained to stop it. His head turned towards the quiet, gentle voice he heard over the wind and waves. Irritation momentarily speared through him, before he caught a better glimpse of the woman.

Pope stopped breathing, chest constricting painfully, before he choked out, “Cath?”

His whole world tilted. No. No. She was dead. He physically felt the air leave her lungs for the last time. He buried her.

The woman stepped towards him slowly until she was engulfed in his shadows. A broken sigh left him when he saw her clearly. Not Cath. For a brief second, Pope saw the way Cath's hair used to blow in the wind. He wondered if he had died and this was the beginning of his punishment. Shame tore through him as the gun in his hand clattered to the concrete next to him.

She wasn't Cath. The similarities started and ended with her hair.

“Go,” he finally responded bluntly, the rough edge to his voice leaving no room to argue.

Instead of listening, like any sane person would, she glanced at the gun resting at his side before closing the distance. Pope followed her every move until she sat down a foot away from him. Despite the distance, the proximity made him flinch. His flesh crawled, screaming at him to hide, flee, but he couldn't move.

“I’d like to sit with you for a while. If that’s all right?” She whispered, staring at him–not in fear–but in understanding.

Slowly, so slowly, she brought her hands into her lap. His eyes zeroed in on the movement immediately. She turned her palms up and clasped her fingers together. Pope half wondered if she was doing it to show him she wasn't a threat. The thought alone made his gut churn violently.

His chin dipped as his gaze ran over her in assessment. His perspective widened through his blurry vision, mind subconsciously taking her in from every possible angle. Pope committed every detail to memory–the reflective hazel of her eyes, her slender fingers, the jagged, silvery scar high on her cheekbone and temple, her brown, wavy hair, her olive skin. He studied every fidget of her fingers, every shallow breath, every blink of her eyes.

That's when he noticed the obscurity oozing off her person in waves. Once the chaos in his mind silenced, she stood out, jarringly so. Pope's eyes raked over her body with curiosity and a bit of paranoia. She had on a long sleeve, black rash guard that hung loose around her waist and hips, but was high on her neck, and black swim trunks, which were tied at her waist and fell to just above her knees. In fact, Pope was almost certain they were men’s swimtrunks because of how bulky they were.

The paranoid part of him whispered in his ear that she could be wearing a wire. Why else would a woman, alone, approach a man with a gun in the middle of the night? The logical side of his brain argued an informant would’ve just let him kill himself. He would no longer be a problem then.

“Who are you?” He asked, bluntly, his cheek involuntarily twitching.

She watched him quietly, head tilting before she answered quietly enough that Pope had to read her lips to catch it. “Are you asking for my life story? My name? Or my purpose here? Hard to tell with a question like that.”

In any other scenario, Pope would’ve assumed those words were confrontational, but the way she spoke was gentle. Genuinely curious as to which version of the answer he wanted to hear. All he could do was stare, willing her to understand he wanted to know it all. Plus, he learned from an early age that silence unnerved people, which in turn caused them to talk more.

However, she didn’t squirm under his scrutiny. Her face remained calm, unbothered. In fact, Pope’s skin tingled under her own assessing gaze. She sat up straighter, clasping and unclasping her fingers. “All of the above,” she whispered to herself before slightly turning her body towards him to answer, “I needed the noise.” She tilted her head towards the ocean, “Makes everything…quieter.”

Pope mimicked the tilting of her head to keep direct eye contact through his hooded eyes. She never flinched. Never leaned away. His eyes momentarily dropped to the necklace resting just below her collarbone. He recognized it as one of five possible birds. It was the only flashy thing on her person and even then, it wasn’t gaudy like the jewelry Smurf wore.

She shifted on the concrete, leaning towards him slightly, “It’s been–”

“You shouldn’t be out this late. Alone,” he interrupted, “Not here.”

An abrupt sense of dread filled him at the thought of her being out here by herself. It told him one of two things from the information he’d gathered so far. She just moved to Oceanside and still didn’t understand the dangers always lurking around dark corners, or she knew she didn’t have to worry. It would explain why she barely flinched when he pointed his gun at her.

She blinked, the only sign of pause he’d seen her take, before she shrugged, “I’m not alone. You’re here.”

His face twitched again, fingers grasping onto his thighs for something to ground him, “You don’t know... What I’ve done.”

It should have scared her off. Just like Amy. It really should have, but instead of the fear he was accustomed to, there was only furrowed sincerity. “Neither do you. But I do know anyone who feels guilty enough to point a gun at their own head… Well, they’ll always be a better person than someone who feels no guilt at all.”

Pope felt like the air got sucked out of his lungs. His lips pursed trying to keep all the emotion at bay, the sting in his eyes blurring her silhouette. The way Amy crumbled at his confession not even an hour ago flashed in his mind. “You don’t know that.”

She insisted gently, “If there’s guilt, there’s always room for forgiveness, but if there’s no belief in redemption, then you’ll never try to be better. Because why try if you’re unforgivable?” There was an edge of desperation to the way she spoke to him. In the way she declared forgiveness was for everyone, including him, like she needed him to understand.

Pope shook his head, ready to pull away. Her optimism was too bright for the things he’d done. She’d push him away just like Amy. Just like Cath. Just like them all. The rustling of clothes scraping against concrete made him snap back to attention. She scooted closer to him, catching his eye.

“I’ve been where you are, except I pulled the trigger,” a grimace passed over her face, pain crinkling the corners of her eyes. “The gun jammed. And you know what crossed my mind first?”

Pope watched her fingers fidget in her lap. The pain had to go somewhere. The silence lingered as she gathered herself. He hung on the edge of every breath she took, waiting for salvation. She reached out her hand between them until it settled on the concrete an inch from his leg, “I thought… Thank God. It would’ve been such a mess. Not: Thank God, I’m alive. Not: I’m so glad it didn’t work. Even my death– I was only concerned about how it would affect everyone else. It was jarring enough to force a perspective shift. To trick me into believing in the possibility of forgiveness.”

His hands flexed against his thighs, breaking eye contact with the mysterious woman who appeared out of thin air. An angel. The thought crossed his mind without any preamble, until he banished it. No one would send an angel to him.

The gun resting beside him whispered a lullaby into his ear. It could all be over. No Smurf. No more jobs. No more existing in this hell.

Words tumbled out of his mouth, his second confession of the night, “I hurt someone. Someone I love. I–I didn’t want to. She told me–” Pope didn’t know why he was repeating the same mistake he made with Amy, but he couldn’t hold the weight of Cath’s death anymore.

“Why?” Her voice was neutral, no indication of fear, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet.

“I thought she was hurting my family.”

The resulting silence was filled with the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the chilly ocean breeze. He counted three wave crashes before the unthinkable happened. Warmth encompassed his hand. Pope looked down sharply to see her hand grasping his, tight enough her knuckles were turning white.

His sharp gaze shot up to see watery eyes reflecting back to him in the moonlight. Tension rippled through him along with confusion. Amy’s face flashed in his mind again, but she wasn’t backing away from him. Wasn’t yelling at him to get away. All he could say was, “You’re crying.”

“Not quite,” she whispered, using her free hand to whip underneath her eyes even though a tear hadn’t fallen yet, almost like it was instinct to not let them fall at all.

Pope glanced between her hand clutching his and her face, “You’re not– You’re not scared of me.” It came out as more of a statement than a question. It fell out of him in a choked whisper.

Instead, she asked, “What’s your name?”

The answer was on the tip of his tongue, but something else spilled out, “Andrew.”

She squeezed his hand rhythmically as if rewarding him for the answer, “No, Andrew. I’m not scared of you. I’m– I think I was meant to be here tonight.”

Angel. Angel. Angel.

The tears had long since dried on Andrew’s cheeks, but he still hadn’t found the correct way to breathe. Even more so now that she was leaning closer. Close enough he could smell the essence of sunscreen and some kind of citrus wafting from her skin.

“Can you hand me your gun, please?” She asked with enough care he barely even considered what she was asking. However, once her words sunk into him, he tensed. She must have felt it because she added, “I promise I’m going to give it back. It’ll only take a second.”

His eyes darted over her face, looking for any sign of deception, but all he saw was something he barely recognized. Something rare. Honesty.

Andrew grabbed his gun, the cool, metal barrel biting into his skin. He hesitantly held the gun handle out to her. To his dismay, she gently removed her hand from his. If she was going to shoot him, he wanted her hand to stay in his. The warmth leaked out of him. Still, he watched her intently.

She turned the gun over in her hand. With too much ease to be her first or thirtieth time, she released the clip. He barely registered the movement before the sching of the bullet in the chamber ejected into her awaiting palm. Then, she removed the rest of the bullets from the clip and threw them into the sand.

She loaded the clip and handed the gun back to him, handle first. It took him a second to grab it, too busy wondering how the hell she knew her way around guns like it was second nature. Not that it was uncommon in Oceanside, but then, Andrew remembered how she reacted to having a gun pointed at her. She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t even seemed all that surprised.

It fell into place piece by piece. Violence wasn’t a new occurrence in her life. And all Andrew could think was, that was no life for an angel.

“I know what you want to ask…” she said, as if she could read his mind. Her fingers subconsciously grazed her bird pendant, distance stretching far and wide in her eyes. It wasn’t hard for Andrew to put two and two together. Whatever life she’d lived before hung around her neck, metaphorically and physically.

Andrew tilted his head to the side in question, gaze narrowed in on her to take in as much as he could, because he could feel the night coming to an end. She turned back to him, her face far less forlorn now that she was looking at him, "That's a story for another night. I have a feeling it won't hold a candle to yours, but if you still want to hear it... Meet me here again. At noon in five days."

He nodded, a slow dip of his chin. He could do that. Andrew found he wanted nothing more than to keep hearing her talk. He refused to question why she wanted to see him again. His need to learn more–to be in her presence again–outweighed anything else. The desperation to see her again already clawed its way into his throat and she was still right beside him.

When she started to stand, Andrew panicked, a part of him afraid to be left alone with his own thoughts again. So, the first thing he could think of came out, "I want your name." Not a question. Not necessarily a demand, but something in between.

A smile pulled at her lips and Andrew found he had a hard time staring at anything else. He almost missed the beat of hesitation in her eyes before she breathed out, "Amina. But I'd really like it if you called me Mina."

Something about the way her name didn't come easily told him all he needed to know. He was certain it was her real name. It wasn't something conjured on the spot. She had to think about whether she trusted him enough to share it. To share whatever weight her name carried.

Mina wasn't scared of him. She'd seen him and hadn't balked at his darkness.

Andrew watched her walk back the way she came. She became a pinprick in the distance. His eyes burned with the effort of trying to keep her in his sights. And he swore, for a moment, a bright flash of white light encompassed her.

Angel. Angel. Angel.

Suddenly, a sharp ringing pulled him from his daze. Andrew pulled out his phone and answered without checking who it was. Whatever it was–whoever it was–he’d deal with it.

Five days. He only had to make it five days.

A skeptic is a person who, when he sees the handwriting on the wall, claims it is a forgery.

The quote no longer sat ominously. Amina’s shitty little studio apartment no longer felt all that shitty. After a lifetime of insincerity, imitations, and cynics, her view no longer felt like a glass half empty. Most of her life she was aimlessly tugged one way or another by constant commands, never allowed to think for herself, let alone choose her own path.

Now, after one night with a man she never should have met in the first place, Amina could finally read the writing on the wall. Everything she’d done–everything she’d been through–they all had led her here. This was where she was meant to be.

Everything worth something in this life had to do with people. Andrew was her sign. Her hands could help rather than deceive. She didn’t have to be Amina here. She could be Mina, her own person. Whoever she chose to be and not who they told her to be.

A good forgery is but an imitation. A great one blurs the line between true artistry and caricature. But a perfect one… Well, that’s just good business.

Her mother’s voice rang in her head, but it didn’t hold as much weight anymore. Not after Andrew. Not after she watched him shakily raise a gun to his temple. Not after she saw his red rimmed eyes, downturned lips, and complete and utter surrender to his grief and pain. She had recognized that look, intimately, and Mina couldn’t stand by and watch it happen.

The thought of abandoning him never crossed her mind, regardless of the danger she might’ve been in. Under other circumstances, she would’ve been far more cautious around someone with a gun, but with Andrew, she hadn’t been the one in danger. Once upon a time, it had been her in his place and all she had wished was for someone to tell her everything was going to be okay.

Mina never got it, but she refused to leave Andrew believing that no one cared. Because despite not knowing him, she cared.

She never liked to draw conclusions about people–especially with no evidence–but she made an educated guess about the kind of life he’d lived so far. Not to mention the ease with which he handled a gun, it was hard not to assume. They were cut from a similar cloth.

Mina fled to the ocean because it reminded her there was something more powerful than all the people in her life who harmed her. However, tonight, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had run, not only to something more ferocious, but someone far more powerful.

The image of him was still so vivid in her mind, even after hours had passed and the sun had started to rise on a new day. His curly auburn hair, the sadness in his hazel eyes, the tenseness of his broad back and shoulders, his arms rigid at his sides. The tone of his voice had been dry and his vocal cadence unusual. It had her hanging on every word. However, the almost unnatural stillness was what had lodged itself in her chest.

Her hand reached for her mockingbird resting against her chest. It used to represent her gift of imitation, a mocking present from her mother. Her little mockingbird. Then, it was used as a threat to reel her back, because a mockingbird was always protective of their family. My mockingbird would never turn on us, would she? Then, it had been a sign of her innocence to be sold to the highest bidder. Our prettiest mockingbird.

Mina used to think her survival was a mistake of fate. It wasn’t. She was supposed to be here. Yes, she was her mother’s mockingbird. Always would be, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn to protect and survive in her own way. For her own people, ones she chose.

Five days.

Five days created enough space to where Andrew could find his own will to live again. If those five days didn’t go well, he’d still have something to hold on to. That’s all she wanted to give him. Something to keep pushing him forward.

And, selfishly, Mina couldn’t imagine a world where she never saw him again.

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