building rome [a. cody]
He was stupid for dreaming. Stupid for thinking that maybe there could be something else for him, an out after his years of devoted service. Smurf gets what Smurf wants. Andrew gets what Smurf allows. 12k
mdni, f!reader, no use of y/n, fluff and angst, smut, childhood trauma, brief canon level violence. fuck ai. cross-posted to ao3. may we all get what we want but never what we deserve, etc, etc.
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There’s a shop in town that Craig Cody claims has the best smoked meat sandwiches in the state. It’s objectively not true, but Craig made up his mind a year ago and hasn’t budged on it since. The place is tiny, four tables and a big counter, a yellow menu older than you are, sun faded floors that have been scraped over by wrought iron chairs for decades.
You’re there most of the week, a pretty thing with dewy cheeks and a smile like a riptide. You know Craig by his orders, the one he gets when he’s alone, the one he gets when he’s feeding more than just himself. Other people come by to pick up the order sometimes. A blond who looks like him, a younger guy with hair cropped short. But it’s Andrew who comes by most often now.
It’s mundane. Having a routine, picking up lunch, being a local. Andrew lives for it. There are so few fixed landmarks in his world, so he takes the ones he can get, makes edifices out of small moments. His favourite shining point, the one thing he’s been looking forward to most in the past few months, is the way you smile at him when the bell over your shop door rings.
“There you are!” An enthusiastic greeting from you today. “I was starting to think Craig found a better spot.”
“Not possible.” Andrew’s been trying his hand at being more playful recently. “He likes the customer service here.”
“He does or you do?”
“Same thing.”
“You know it’s not.”
He shrugs, mouth pulled into his version of a full smile.
When you hand him the order in two full paper bags, he makes sure to take them from you in such a way that your fingers could almost tangle. The sun is almost done setting, the last warm light of the day touching everything gently.
“I’ll come back to pick you up?” It’s not a question coming from him, it’s a statement.
You look from him to the bags he’s now holding.
“Not if you’re about to have dinner.”
“I will have dinner. With you.”
“You’re allowed to be busy, you know.”
“I know.” He starts towards the door. “I’ll come back.”
There’s nothing for you to do but finish your shift and think about Andrew some more.
X
The first time Andrew drove you home it was spring and the ground was soaked. It had been raining on and off all that day, a cool wind coming off of the water. You were huddled outside the shop under its awning when his truck pulled in. You gave him a sheepish smile when he came around. His eyes were doing that thing that used to make you feel like you were in trouble.
“My ride bailed. I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.” You told him.
He looked at you then, your hands deep in your pockets, the hood of your sweater already wet, and he handed you his keys, no questions.
“Get in.”
You blinked at him. He nudged you towards his truck, his big hand overly gentle where it touched you.
“I’ll be right back.” He promised.
So you got in his truck and he got Craig’s sandwiches and he came back, turning up the heat as soon as the truck was started. You didn’t say much but neither did he. He parked in front of your building after a short drive and you both sat there in silence until you felt brave.
You asked him about his day and his answer was stilted and terse. He wanted to ask about your week but he wasn’t sure how. You asked him how long he’d been living in Oceanside and he said his whole life. He asked you if you liked cats and you looked down at the hello kitty charm on your bag and laughed. It was nice. Really nice.
He drives you home most nights as long as he’s around, and he always tries to be around. He feeds you now, too. You asked him one time if he minded picking something up on the way to your place, told him you would pay and that he could come in for a movie if he wanted. Now he moves like that’s always the plan; buying you something you’re craving and sitting by you until you get tired. He doesn’t deviate, wouldn’t give up this routine for anything.
It’s such a strange pleasure watching you eat. He stared that first time, he knows it, and he still stares now. The way your mouth moves, the way you hold your hands when they’re messy, the way your posture loosens by degrees as you get full. Knowing you’re comfortable and cared for and worry free while you’re with him gives him a sense of satisfaction that is mostly wholesome and only a little perverse. You get so sleepy some nights, eyes blinking closed, breathing slowing beside him. So vulnerable to all possible danger, Pope Cody included. He’d never hurt you. He’d never dream of touching your pretty throat or soft stomach to be violent. You could ask him for anything and he would say yes.
X
“Shit, Deran, man, can you go pick up my order?” Craig looks at the clock after coming up from another line.
Deran doesn’t look up from his phone.
“I’ll go.” Andrew says, finishing his last visual sweep of the kitchen.
He had been thinking of you then, while his brothers were fucking around and he was wiping down the counters. He thinks about you more than he should. He thinks a lot of things and gets away with most of them, nobody usually asks how he is or where he’s been or what he’s been up to. Unless he’s working a job, he has a kind of freedom that comes from being forgotten.
He’s been trying to build a life away from Smurf. Away from this house and this work and this looming feeling of inevitable disaster. He has his own place now, something that’s his alone. He reads books and buys candles and watches the ocean at night. He sees you.
Craig sniffs roughly, eyes narrowing at Andrew. Something’s been different, he’s noticed.
“You hate running my errands.”
“I want some air.”
“Then go out back.”
“Smells like pot.”
“That’s never bothered you before.”
“It’s always bothered me.”
“What’s with you, man.”
Andrew’s steady eyes meet Craig’s blown ones. Andrew says nothing. Craig’s mouth firms then splits into a shit-eating grin.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for shop girl.”
“Do you want your sandwiches or not.”
“You totally do! Deran,” Craig kicks half blindly with his foot. “Pope has a total crush on my sandwich girl.”
“Whatever, man.” Deran does not care.
“You have to bring her by the bar sometime, man. Let us get a good look at her.”
Andrew decides he’s finished with this conversation.
“Come on, Pope. I mean it, let’s meet your girlfriend.” Craig calls after him, laughing.
Andrew can’t tell if Craig is laughing at the idea of him having a girlfriend because Craig thinks he’s unloveable or incapable of love. Andrew hasn’t managed to disprove either account yet.
On his way to you he thinks about what might happen if you met his family. Not Smurf, absolutely not Smurf, but maybe Deran, maybe Craig. It’s what normal people do, isn’t it? He decides against it for the near future. Not yet, he thinks, meaning maybe not ever.
X
“Should we start cooking?” You ask, your order of Thai food on your lap.
Andrew catches the we and tucks it away somewhere in his chest. He considers your question.
“Do you want to?”
“Usually no.” You think about it. “But I saw a recipe I think would be really nice. And plus your kitchen is to die for.”
You like Andrew’s apartment for how fancy it is. He knows you must notice how bare it is, the minimal comforts and decorations. But things he doesn’t think twice about are novel to you: the flatscreen in his bedroom, the nice espresso machine in his kitchen, the beach access out the back door. And you don’t mind the minimalism, you really don’t. You know what Andrew is like and his apartment just makes sense. It’s a continuation of the reserved efficiency he operates with.
He’s still not used to another body in his space. He likes that it’s yours though. He likes the control having you in his apartment gives him. Having you so near, so visible and readable, it allows him to be able to enforce a certain kind of order. When something is wrong he can see it, he can hear it, and he can fix it. You’re hungry? He’ll make sure you eat something. You’re cold? He’ll turn down the A/C. You want something? It’s yours and he’ll get it to you the moment you ask. He understands that you have a life to live. A job and an apartment and friends that you love. But he can’t help the way he wants for you when you’re not within reach.
If he could be with you always, he thinks that’s something he would want. It’s not currently possible on his end either, he has jobs to plan and a family to wrangle and “properties” to “manage”. He keeps all of that away from you, and will continue to do so until the end of time if he gets his way. If he has his way you’ll never know, you’ll never get hurt, you’ll never be in danger. It’s not quite a pipe dream but it’s a beautiful thought, one he’ll cling to for as long as possible.
You lick sauce from the side of your thumb before wiping your hands off on a napkin. Andrew knows he’s staring again.
“We can start cooking if you want to.”
You seem pleased by this.
The night moves quietly, waves crashing somewhere out of sight, the stars rotating above you. There’s a solace in having you under his roof. He thinks this as he tidies your leftovers and refills your water.
You’re meant to be picking a movie but you’re not flipping through anything when Andrew returns to your side. You hold the remote lightly in your hand, head tilting towards him.
“Andrew,” You start.
You look almost shy. You’ve been on best behaviour in the two times you’ve been over to his apartment, no snooping or wandering whatsoever. You’re careful with him, he knows this. But he can recognize that it doesn’t come from a place of fear. You approach him the same way he would approach a stray; soft touch and gentle tones, waiting instead of advancing.
“Would it be okay if we watched the TV in your bedroom?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Not like that!” Your skin starts to flush. “It’s just that I never had one in my bedroom. When I was a kid I always used to dream about, like, watching movies in a pillow fort.”
“We’re building a fort now, too?”
“No! No, I just–” You look sideways.
“I’m kidding.” He says mercifully. “We can do anything you want.”
You pause, sheepish.
“Even the fort?”
“Even that.”
He looks at you, all sweet and shy, and he thinks he could eat you whole.
“No fort today, but could I maybe borrow something comfortable?”
“Of course.”
He lets you get changed while he pretends to wash dishes he’s already cleaned. He breathes over the sink, focusing on the sound of running water instead of the sounds you’re making in his bedroom. Feet on wood, fabric on fabric. You come back out to find him and ask Andrew if he’s going to change, too. He wasn’t, but you’re asking like you want him to so he will.
And then you’re on top of his covers and he’s on top of his covers and for the first time in his life a California King feels too big. He lets you mess with his pillows, all eight of them, creating some sort of semi-structured pile against his headboard. He leans against them, trying to look relaxed. You make a quick decision about what you’d like to watch and then you’re leaning back too, shifting and sinking into the space you made.
“Good?” He asks across the measly inches between you.
“Yeah.” You hum like you’re happy.
He can’t look at you for very long, not without his heart rate spiking or his dick hardening when he doesn’t mean it to. So he watches your movie and tries not to notice when you give up on subtlety, settling yourself gently against his side. Arm to arm, your head on his shoulder.
“Is this okay?” You ask, your hands pressing together in your lap.
His head comes down to rest against yours, vision tilted at an angle that makes watching the television a little unpleasant.
“Of course.” He says, closing his eyes because he knows you can’t see him.
Your hands loosen. His shoulders drop. He tries not to imagine more of you in his clothes, in his bed, in his kitchen. He fails.
X
Andrew has spent his morning and most of his afternoon pouring over maps and blueprints, planning and checking and marking. A convenient opportunity fell into Smurf’s lap so there’s a job on the horizon. Not the biggest they’ve ever pulled but not a small one by any means. There’s a lot to do. Casing and timing and talking and arranging. If Andrew were to ever find above board employment, he thinks he would do well in logistics.
He and his brothers move around each other, around Smurf, as they each take care of their given responsibilities. Andrew is as present and careful as he always is. He knows Smurf hovers more intensely the closer to a job they get.
He doesn’t call you until he’s back at his place. He doesn’t leave meetings early to pick you up. He wants to, god he’d love to, but this was a small sacrifice in the name of your safety.
He doesn’t lay claim to much, but that which he claims as his own is kept as far away from this life as possible. Smurf does not come to his house. He does not tell his brothers about his favourite places to eat. He leaves the phone Smurf gave him at home when he’s with you. He hoards his scraps of freedom with a kind of desperation.
He goes over the timeline for the new job in his head as he drives home, slotting events and goalposts into their appropriate dates. The calendar in his head already has your schedule on it, when you work and the plans you tell him about. Things like your friend’s birthday and the opening day of a movie you said you want to go see. It’s only ever one or the other; either he’s working or he’s seeing you. He wishes for something different, for a life less fragmented. He would let you and everything you are consume him if he thought it were feasible.
When he gets home and checks his personal phone, there’s a text from you waiting for him. It hasn’t been too long since you sent it. He doesn’t like keeping you waiting, not for anything.
are you free on thursday?
He’s not but he’ll fix that. He’d pick you every time if he could. For now, he’ll make every concession he’s able.
X
Andrew had never been to a farmer’s market before. It’s like a mini street fair. The market in Oceanside happens on Thursday mornings, in a parking lot close to the Surf Museum. The sun is already warm across his shoulders as he walks with you into the morning crowd.
You’re looking at garden flowers and he’s trailing behind you. You pick up a small nursery pot and hold it towards him after you’ve already taken a sniff. He does as you did, the smell of petals and greens cutting through the smell of grill smoke in the air. He smiles because you’re smiling. You keep looking, he keeps following.
There are a lot of people here. Not so many that he’s worried but enough that it takes a moment before the woman at a fruit stall can help you. She overturns a punnet of nectarines into a bag before handing it back to you. He hands her a few bills before you can even get your wallet out.
“I have my own money.” You tell him as you step to the side, tucking the fruit into the tote on your shoulder.
“Exactly. Keep it.” He says, reaching for the bag straps before they’re settled.
“Let me carry my own produce at least.” You turn away from his reach and he almost laughs at how indignant you are.
“Come on,” He coaxes. “That’s my job.”
He still hasn’t called himself your boyfriend. Hasn’t asked for the pleasure. But he’s yours and he wants to show you every chance he gets.
“You’re going to make me feel useless. You can hold my hand, final offer.”
He takes it with a smile.
He’s noticed that you like when he touches you. You sat very still when he removed an eyelash from your cheek a few days ago, you lean towards him when he puts a hand on your back or your arm, your face lights up whenever he sits himself right beside you. When he reaches for you, you move to meet him halfway. He doesn’t think you know you’re doing it.
Walking beside him you look pleased. He feels exceedingly normal. It’s nice to spend time with someone and feel like he can breathe.
Craig has been riding him harder than usual, being mean just to be mean. It’s not personal, despite the way it feels. Andrew has just always been available to absorb hits like that from his family. He doesn’t like it but he does it.
Deran has been kinder though, balancing Craig in the way they all seem to balance each other. Scales tipped equally, his siblings’ temperaments mirrored graphs of each other's. There’s something mundane about it if he ignores the crime and the drugs of it all.
Deran’s having a theme night at his bar this week, told his brothers to bring friends. Andrew thought of you, because who else was he going to think of. Deran does vulnerability best out of all of them, so Andrew wasn’t surprised when he later said that he’d like to meet you, said he was happy to see Andrew doing things away from Smurf.
He’s been weighing it. The idea of bringing you to the bar. He buys you a lemonade and thinks about what it would be like to buy you a cocktail, to watch your skin flush after a few of them. Standing in the shade cast by a tent off to the side of the lot, he watches as you survey the vendors you haven’t visited yet. He bets you’ll want to look at the honey and bread just down the way.
He tries his luck.
“My brothers want to meet you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pauses.
“Well, do you want me to meet them?”
He doesn’t have an answer right away. His head turns to watch a parent pull their child in a wagon filled with carrots and ginger.
“My family is not…nice.” He tries. “We aren’t traditional.”
“Andrew, I know who the Codys are.”
Of course you do, you’re far from stupid and Craig has been a regular at your shop for a long time. He dips his head once in a nod.
“I still had to say it.”
What Andrew doesn’t know is what you might have heard about him, about Pope Cody specifically. He doesn’t ask. He won’t, or maybe he can’t.
“There’s a lot I haven’t told you.” He avoids your eyes. “I don’t know if I like who I am around them.”
You sit with this together.
“What about when you’re around me?”
“Everything makes sense when I’m around you.” This answer comes to him quickly. It’s the truth at the bottom of the matter. “I can be different.”
There’s a clarity in his eyes when they meet yours again. A kind of acceptance or resignation, or something similar. If you could carry things for him, you would. His anger, his pain. You can’t, not yet, so you insist on holding your own bags for now. You refuse to give him anything that would make him feel any heavier.
“Andrew,” Your hand reaches for the side of his face. “I want what you want. If you want me to meet them, I will. If you don’t, then I won’t, and that’s the end of it.”
He nods, jaw pressing further into your hand. The obvious earnestness of your expression almost hurts to look at.
“Can I kiss you?” You ask.
Your question is the final nail in the coffin. He was already in it, his heart already beating raw and tender in your hands. But he falls then. Not into love, but into something that could be one day.
“Please.” He says, because he wants that so much.
Your mouth meets his in a gentle press and he goes very still, head tilted to allow you to do as you please. The kiss is short-lived, a soft thing that ends too soon for his liking. But there will be more, he thinks. He hopes. He draws you against him and he melts, his arms clasping around you like a shell around a pearl.
X
Everything is fine until it isn’t. That’s how it always goes.
Tonight has been good, Andrew thinks. He has qualms with Deran, with the way he runs his bar, with bringing you here, with most things really. But he was trying to be good, Trying to give you every part of himself even if he found them hard to look at. This was something safe, he reasoned. The bar wasn’t Smurf’s house and it wasn’t something Smurf owned. It was a public place with decent drinks and somewhere you wouldn’t end up alone with his brothers. He thought it would only be Deran tonight, but Craig does what he wants and goes where he wants without telling anyone. That was fine. It was still manageable. For one night he could try to be a normal guy bringing his normal date to meet his normal family. A very controlled dose of the Codys.
Deran had greeted you using his manners, asking a few questions before being called away to take another order. He found Andrew’s eyes later and gave him a nod, a quiet approval. Craig was himself, loud and a little sleazy, but he still made an attempt to connect with you.
You look beautiful. You always do. Tonight there’s glitter on your cheeks, on your eyelids, stuck to the silk soft skin under your eyes, too. He doesn’t know the first thing about makeup or how it’s supposed to look but he’s dead certain you’re always doing it the right way.
You drift towards him and away from him, finding a coworker or a familiar face in the crowd, but always returning back to his side. He doesn’t have a name for how it feels to know he’s a place you want to come back to. His back straightens every time you leave his arm’s reach. He’s brooding, he knows he is. He knows his brothers are watching his posture, his temperament. He can’t feign casualty on a regular day, much less when you’re around. He sits, tense on his bar stool, eyes tracking your movements, the way you smile, the way you laugh. How long you let people touch you for, how long you look into someone’s eyes.
Craig barks loudly into his ear and he doesn’t flinch, just tilts away from the noise. Craig keeps barking until he gets a reaction.
“What.” Andrew’s affect is flat.
“You make a great guard dog, man. She collar you in the bedroom?”
Andrew doesn’t react. He knows how it will go if he does. Craig cackles anyways.
“Lighten up,” Craig chides, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Tell her if she wants a hit she knows where to find me.”
Something ugly flares inside of Andrew. A kind of dry heat flashing in his stomach. Craig should know better than to try giving you anything, and he does. Andrew had already made the mistake of trying to assert a boundary, trying to enforce distance between you and his brothers.
“What, Pope’s girl is too much of a perfect angel for a line?”
“She’s not like you, Craig.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not like you either.”
Andrew tries, every day, to not let his family get under his skin. It’s hard when they know exactly where the gaps in his armour are.
You’re back before he realizes, smiling up at him with those eyes of yours.
Everything is fine. Until it isn’t.
There’s a subtle shift in the room, something that few people can notice. Andrew always notices. He knows when things are headed south long before they start turning that way. Voices get louder, chairs start scraping against the floor. No-one is yelling yet, and there’s still more laughter in the air than anything else. But something sours all the same and Andrew figures he has five minutes or less to remove you before things start escalating.
“Do you want to get some air?” He asks, trying his hand at the beguiling way you speak to him sometimes. Both hands find your waist in a moment of bravery.
“I’d love some air, will you let me bum a smoke?” You lean towards him like you’re melting, movements slowed after a day in the heat and a few drinks.
He sighs and gives you a look but doesn’t say no.
“Yesss,” your voice is soft around the edges, warm and tipsy. You make a small victorious gesture and your nose squishes up with a smile. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. “I’m just gonna get another drink first, take a shot with me?”
“Can we do it after, honey?” He winces, knowing he’s laying it on way too thick but you don’t seem to notice.
“Please?” You reach for his biceps with both hands, giving them a small squeeze. He would fold under any other circumstance.
“Let’s get some air, okay?”
You pout but nod your consent and Andrew scans the room once more.
It’s too late. Three men are standing near the front now, staring each other down, surrounded by a few others posturing. Several hands are inching towards inner pockets and waistbands.
God-fucking-damnit. This was the last thing he wanted from tonight. He wanted one thing, just one singular night to play boyfriend-girlfriend, to experience the normal milestone of meeting the family. But now there are guns in the same room as you and there will be violence soon and Andrew can’t help but to feel doomed, chained to an ever-sinking ship. He should know better. He should fucking know better.
“Come on,” He murmurs, taking you by the wrist and leading you around the bar. You stumble after him, confusion creeping over you.
“Andrew, wait.” His name comes out a little breathless, followed by a giggle that should not make his heart stutter as hard as it does.
“Slow down, Andrew, please.” There it is again, his name in your mouth. “You know I’m wearing stupid shoes today.”
He does. He knows this. You’d called them stupid earlier when he picked you up but he hadn’t thought so. He liked the heel, the curve of your feet in them. He forces his shoulders to relax, his grip on your wrist to loosen.
“Just trust me– please. We need to go.” His voice is low and steady.
To your credit, your expression sobers some immediately, nodding as his eyes hold yours. You slip your fingers down to fit between his. He turns to keep pulling you behind him as soon as he feels your hand is settled in his. He leads you into the kitchen, through the back and helps you up into his truck. He hears the first gunshot as he closes your door. Understanding dawns on you as you buckle in.
He wheels the car backwards out of his parking spot and takes off, riding the curb as he pulls away from it. You clear the first few stoplights in silence.
“Are your brothers going to be mad?”
“What?”
Your question almost startles him. Both of his hands hold the steering wheel with exactitude, his jaw tight as he stares down the road ahead of him like it might open beneath you.
“Will they be mad that you left?”
“I don’t care.” He’s clipped.
You’re not sure what to say to that.
The drive is otherwise silent. You climb the stairs to your apartment together and you turn to talk to him outside your door.
“Inside.” He directs you before you can speak.
So you unlock your door and step inside, Andrew following. You slip off your shoes and turn to face him in the tight space of your entryway. His hands hang at his sides, awkward and unsure. You look a little tired, he thinks, but you don’t look afraid.
“You won’t be in trouble?”
You’re still worrying about him even though you shouldn’t. There’s no need, and he’s not sure he deserves it.
“It doesn’t matter.” He says. “You are more important than whatever mess my brothers are in. Than whatever messes I get dragged into. I will always take care of you first, got it?”
You nod, eyes wide in the low light.
“I’m going to go now, I have to fix it. Lock your door.”
He stands for a moment, a breath between you. Selfishly, you wish he didn’t have to go. Selfishly you wish you could keep him, absolve him of everything he holds on to and carries like a cross.
His hand smooths your hair back and he kisses your temple before he’s gone.
He texts you after you’ve fallen asleep to let you know he’s safe. You don’t hear from him again for a few days.
X
In the week that follows, Andrew is quiet on the communication front. It’s not unusual for him to be busy, taking a few days further away from you when he’s working. There’s no job this week, though. There won’t be for at least another two, the shooting the other night having delayed the timeline. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to take up space in your periphery, in your mind, in your phone. He feels guilty. Entirely at fault for something he doesn’t know how to articulate yet. Something he knows has barely started to pan out.
You should never have been at the bar the other night, he sees that now. It was a mistake to bring you up against the border of his life. He’d been good before then. He’d held anything that could hurt you behind a very thick line, never allowing anything to spill or ooze or explode beyond it.
It was optimism, maybe. A delusion. An impossible dream that you might be able to meet his family and walk away untouched. You hadn’t even met Smurf that night but now she knows about you. She’s always been aware, omniscient in her way, but now her sights are on you properly. The risks were undertaken and for what? Certainly not for any apparent reward.
You call him on a Thursday in the afternoon. Andrew knows he’s going to pick up but he makes himself wait. Makes himself count out the first ring, the second, the seventh. You don’t sound different. You don’t sound like you’ve decided the fabric of your relationship with Andrew has been torn asunder. You sound normal. Happy, even, to be talking to him.
“Take me on a drive?”
There was no world in which he would have ever said no.
You don’t tell him there’s somewhere you want to go, only that you want him to pick you up tomorrow morning. After your call he looks up “where to take a girl on a drive reddit”. He spends a few hours on his phone, looking at google maps and trip advisor. He wants to take you somewhere you’ll like, obviously somewhere half local and quiet. By the end of the night he’s looked at all the public parks, beaches and lookout points in a six hour radius. He doesn’t need to take you that far, but he needs to know what to do if you ask him to go for food or find another market. He makes a shortlist in his mind, picking four places that were pretty enough for you to take pictures, had enough flat ground for you to spread your blanket on, were close enough to the kind of cafes he knows you like, and that were accessible by backroads so that you could take the scenic route.
He’ll have to play it by ear, perform spontaneity well. He wants you to feel like you stumbled upon a hidden gem together. He wants to spin gold for you, make something out of the very little he feels he has to offer you.
In the morning your eyes are tired. You let him in while you finish gathering your things for the day. The early air blows cool through the windows of his truck, lifting the loose neck of your dress, fluttering through the curls against his forehead. The roads are quiet, the two of you cutting across country and open spaces.
Andrew doesn’t love being at the beach. It’s sandy, it can be windy, it can be loud, there could be seaweed. He likes looking at the waves, usually from the rocks or the pier, but he’s never really made an afternoon of it. Not until you anyway. You make more of a fuss out of going to the beach than Andrew ever has. It makes him feel almost pampered. You have a big blanket to spread half in the shade and half in the sun, you pack a tote bag full of water and cut fruit and crackers, and you always bring him an extra book, just in case he wants something to read. He doesn’t think you would make him swim if he didn’t want to, but he would if you asked.
The spot you choose along the shore is quiet. Both of your shoes sit to the side of your blanket, pressed together in alignment. You show him the books you brought and he gets you to tell him about them. He makes sure you drink water and reminds you to reapply your sunscreen.
“Do you think I could manage a nap here?” You wonder.
“Probably.” He answers.
You don’t ask him for anything explicitly, not even implicitly, but he wants to rearrange the world to your whim.
Andrew makes a choice then, decides he will hold you if you want to rest. He moves over, slightly behind you, and gathers you the rest of the way. He makes a resting place on his chest for your back, a space for you to be held between his legs.
Nothing about you resists. No tension, no protests. His arms rest over your stomach and you sigh into him. A small breeze comes off the water, rustling the leaves and the tall grass.
“So, about the other night.” You start. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You’re the one to bring it up. You still seem unshaken, unbothered by what Andrew feels was a significant series of failures on his part.
“No.”
You accept this, returning to a silence you’re comfortable in. Waves swell, birds call.
“Were you scared?” He asks eventually, tentatively.
“No.” You answer. “We were gone before I could be.”
You feel him nod against the side of your head. Clouds move slowly. Andrew speaks eventually.
“Do you still want to keep seeing me?”
“I do. Do you still want to see me?”
He does, very badly, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that Andrew Cody is a dangerous man who has no right to hold you the way he wants to, who has no right to any of your affection when all he has to offer is blood money and his own trauma. He can see things starting to unravel. He feels himself beginning to fray. He wishes he had done things differently but he can’t take back the other night, what’s done is done. You said you knew who the Codys are, but that doesn’t mean you understand the extent of what they do, the damage they’re able to cause. It’s like he’s watching you put your foot in a bear trap. It hasn’t snapped shut yet, but it will.
“I do.” He says, because he’d want you to be the very last thing he ever saw if he died.
You seem at ease, as if this conversation had smoothed over every cautious thought in your head. You don’t get it, he thinks. There’s no way you do.
“Will you read to me?” He asks. He needs to hear something other than his own voice in his head.
Andrew doesn’t ask for much. Not for more of your time, not for any favours, not for things you know he’d like. You wish he would ask you for more. You think it escapes him that you want to give him the world, too. So you read. Of course you read. Your book is something pastoral and meandering, one you’ve finished more than once.
As you speak, your words become woven between the crashing of the waves. Andrew doesn’t pay attention to the actual words so much as the sound of them coming out of your mouth. The way you hold vowels between your lips, the way consonants get softened when you read too quickly. He presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head. You settle against him just that fraction of an inch more.
You doze off a little once you’ve finished your chapter. The heat of the afternoon has made you both soft and pliable. In Andrew’s head, the boundaries between your skin and his have started blurring, coalescing at the surface. Your head turns a little, adjusting against him. If he could gather you further into himself he would. His arms are already solid around you, your hands resting over them. He dips his head, nosing against your shoulder, up your neck, wanting nothing but to smell the salt stuck to your skin, feel the heat coming off of you. Your hands squeeze a little, maybe an encouragement, maybe a thank you. He thinks he might be overheating. He doesn’t move.
X
“Where have you been?” Smurf asks as soon as he’s through her door.
It’s been a few days since he’s been back here, not any longer than usual. He’s not stupid. He knows what Smurf is fishing for. But he won’t roll over so easily. It’s been years since he obeyed every trick on command.
“At home.” He says. Simple.
“That’s it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You know the job is soon, right baby?”
“I know. I’ve been to every meeting.”
“Good.” She says. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to get distracted.”
He stays quiet. There’s nothing else to say.
That same week, Andrew pulls his truck into the far end of the small parking lot in front of your job. He settles in, crossing his arms to wait an hour for you to text him you were close to clocking out. He doesn’t tell you how long he likes to wait for you. He lets you think he leaves his driveway only after you send him a message. In his head this waiting counts as time spent with you.
His eyes scan the lot, the usual cars parked in their places. The owner’s, the cook’s, the man with a regular Friday order. His eyes catch on a white car just in front of the door. That one, he notices, is new. That one looks an awful lot like one of Smurf’s cars.
His stomach drops. He was sure he had done everything right– done all he was asked, showed up every time he was called, obeyed every time he was given an order. It should have been enough to keep Smurf happy. It should have been enough to keep you safe.
He’s moving before he’s certain, pulling open the door to your shop with poorly concealed urgency. And he sees her. Smurf is there by the small shelves tucked by the side wall, asking you about muffuletta and olives of all things. You’re talking to her like you would any other customer, soft-spoken and informative. She has a pair of big sunglasses between her fingers and she’s smiling at you in a way that he knows means she might bite. Andrew isn’t sure how he’s going to handle this situation, just that he needs to.
Smurf notices him too soon, he’s at a disadvantage. She turns her head to watch him approach with a kind of boredom on her face. Your head follows, finding him not long after.
“Smurf.” He says, choosing to stand beside you.
You look up at him with a shine in your eyes you can’t help and he knows his mother sees it.
“Andrew.” She says, putting on a kind of syrup over her words. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Just stopping by.”
“Oh, this isn’t the girl you were telling me about, is it?” A well acted realization takes place on her face. She turns back to you. “It’s nice to officially meet you honey, call me Smurf.”
Her hand sticks out and waits for yours. Pope’s fingers twitch watching you shake hands, hating that his mother would touch you. It’s something so small and calculated, so inane to any onlooker or outsider. Touch, to Smurf, means access. Access means ownership.
“Did you both want to take a seat?” You offer, polite and without motive.
“No, that’s okay.” Smurf says with a smile. “I should probably head out. You take care, I’ll see you at home Andrew.”
She turns almost lazily, meandering back out the door. Andrew stays standing straight and tall until it closes behind her.
“Hi,” You offer.
“Hi.”
You wait. He shifts over his feet, trying to shake what’s settled over his shoulders.
“You’re early.”
“I was in the area.”
You hum. He doesn’t think you believe him but you let it go.
“Sit. Want a sandwich?”
“No, thank you.”
He settles stiffly into one of the wrought iron chairs at the little table furthest into the corner. You go about the rest of your shift as if he weren’t there. Taking orders, wiping counters, getting the store ready for the girl who takes over after eight. His shoulders fall a fraction as he watches you, just enough for him to feel a difference.
When he drops you off that night he doesn’t stay. He goes home to sit on his bed and spiral, down and down and down. He doesn’t sleep.
X
He’s there the next day to drive you home again. He isn’t sure that he should. He doesn’t know what to do, not at all, so he sticks with the routine he knows. Something will give soon, things can’t stay as they are. But he still wants to see you. He can’t quite say no to himself yet.
He’s quiet on the drive. He’s quiet sitting on your couch. He’s quiet as you eat. You’re giving him so much grace. But a way through feels impossible.
You shower and he stays where he is, an immoble fixture in your living space. You come back to him, steamed and dewy, and he thinks he should go but he doesn’t. When you ask him if he thinks a shower would help he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he deserves the comfort you offer. He doesn’t think hot water will fix anything. But he showers anyway, because it’s something to do.
While the water doesn’t fix things it makes his neck ache a little less. The smell of your soap soothes him somewhat. His skin feels tight by the time he’s done. He still doesn’t feel clean.
He doesn’t see you when he comes back out into the living room so he doubles back to your bedroom. Your lamps are on, casting the space in a warm glow. You’re a soft thing in your shirt and your shorts, legs bare and feet tucked close to you. There’s something playing softly from a speaker he doesn’t see immediately. You look up from the book you’re reading and smile, something small and sticky-sweet. You nod towards the space beside you. He gets on the bed. He lays down and clasps his hands over his chest. It’s quiet. Andrew can do quiet.
One song passes. Then two, then four. You close your book to watch him breathe. His eyes stay on the ceiling.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He answers without turning his head.
“You stay with your mom sometimes?” You ask it kindly, like it’s just another thing you want to learn about him. It makes something feel sharp behind his ribs. You make it seem so easy, addressing the things he should be able to on his own.
“Sometimes.”
I’ll see you at home, Andrew. Said by Smurf to stake a claim, to tie a leash.
“Does she ever come to your place?”
“No.” That was Andrew’s apartment, paid for with his own money. “It’s just mine.”
You hum, filing your new understandings away.
“She seems nice.” You offer, aiming for levity.
“She’s not.” Something about Andrew’s voice sounds unsettled, like something is about to come unhinged.
“Oh.” You piece it together. “So, it’s maybe not good that she came to see me?”
Andrew shakes his head. It really wasn’t.
You wait. You don’t know what to ask so you don’t ask anything, letting him decide where to take things, what to share.
“Smurf is… dangerous.” He settles on the simple word. He looks at you, finally. “I didn't want you to meet her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He wants to get that straight.
You’re still waiting, watching him with open eyes. You’re always doing this, creating a space for him and guarding the perimeter. Giving him a freedom that comes from being looked after, not forgotten.
Something comes loose inside of him. He finds himself wanting to talk but not knowing what to say. It starts bubbling out of him. He hears himself telling you about Smurf, using words like touch and forced and hurt, each word mapped both to himself and his mother in a nauseating web. He doesn’t know which things should stay unsaid. He thinks all of it should remain unsaid but you deserve honesty, and he won’t let you stay twined with him without knowing. He probably won’t let you stay twined with him at all.
There’s a beat. A song ends and another starts.
“You know it’s not okay, right? The way she treated you?” Your voice reaches him, even as he’s in the distant place inside of himself he uses as safety.
He nods once.
“You know none of it was your fault, right?”
Again.
“I’m sorry,” You say, voice low. You unfold your legs to lay on your side. He can still feel your eyes, a gentle kind of attention on his face.
“It’s okay.” He says, automatic. He turns onto his side, too.
“It’s not.”
It’s really not.
He sits with this, not quite ready to meet your eyes again. But his eyes follow the line of your shoulder, the even rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your shirt at the base of your neck.
Your whole body leans towards him halfway, offering comfort, and then it waits. He still can’t look at you but his hand finds your side, follows it's line towards your lower back. You move to tuck yourself against him fully, sternum to sternum, legs threading together. His fingers spread against your back, his pinky finding the space between your top and your bottoms. It almost makes you shiver, the slow drag of his finger.
Your bare skin is so soft. There’s a heat all over and his hands are tingling where they touch you. He tries to stay in the moment, to stay right where he is, but the thoughts creep up on him. Enjoying this, here, with you, feels like a bad decision.
He’s been so good. He’s been working so hard. Knowing and letting himself be known. Trusting you and trusting himself. He was so close to something like surrender. He’ll have to go. He knows he’ll have to. The hardened, avoidant, pessimistic, realistic voice inside of his head tells him as much, tells him to cut his losses now and give in to what he knows is inevitable. But there’s a whimpering, starving, obsessive, pathetically optimistic voice answering back, speaking from a place he can’t identify. It wants to have you, to keep you, but he’s getting less and less sure he’ll be able to by the day. Smurf standing in front of you was the start and the end of it. It never should have happened, and now that it has, there’s nothing to be done. Smurf was her own kind of death sentence.
Andrew is better at self preservation than absolutely anything else. He’s avoided more for less, resorted to more drastic means for less important ends. But he can’t help himself. He wants to have this before he goes. He wants to give you this one thing, something tender and devoted and his alone to give. He wants you to see him on his knees, soft spots exposed for you to lay your hands over. He wants you to know he’d give you anything, expose his muscle and sinew if you wanted to look, leave the world behind if you asked him to.
Yes, he would kill for you. But he would also take his shirt off. He’d let you touch him, taste him, look into his mouth, listen to him fall apart.
He can’t tell you what’s going on in his head. He barely has a handle on it most days, and doesn’t know how to show it either. He can try though. God help him, he could try. His forehead meets yours, careful not to hurt you when they collide. He takes a moment, and then he tilts his head further. You share a breath before he finally seeks your mouth with his. He kisses you, a little stiff and a little firm, and you let him.
When he feels your hand come up into his hair, his mouth parts under yours. He takes as deep a breath as he can before returning to the kiss, a thrill running through him as he feels your tongue, your teeth.
His hand sweeps the length of your spine, up then down before reaching further, hungry for more of you. He doesn’t grab exactly, but there’s an assertiveness to his touch. His hand is heavy and low on your hip, and your leg comes higher up, still curled around his. His hips begin to rock against yours and you make a small sound. He stills.
He hesitates not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you so unbearably much. His need is overwhelming and it feels unfair to you.
“We don’t have to do anything else.” You mean this, as breathless and burning as you are.
“I want to.” He says. He can try to be braver than he is, knowing you’ll handle him carefully.
Your mouth finds his then, drawing him back into you. His shoulders crowd over you without meaning to, the broadness of his chest pressing against you and encouraging you onto your back as he leans over you. His mouth comes back down against yours, pressing and pressing and pressing. He slides his tongue against yours, trying to pay attention to the feel and your taste and somehow not fully taking in either. The hand over your hip starts to climb upwards, dragging fabric as it goes. His fingers find the band of your bra from over your shirt and then he repeats the motion, this time against your skin. His hand is hot against you, his palm sweeping back up your ribs to cup the bottom of your breast.
Your chest pushes up into his hand and he understands he’s doing well. He would spend more time on your tits if he felt more self-assured but he’s nervous here. He only wants to touch you in ways he’s certain will feel good for you. He thinks of his hands, the big, rough things that they are, and he can see himself grabbing you too viciously if he’s not careful. No, he’d rather play it safe, stick to things he knows how to do. He gives you one calculated squeeze before his hand moves back down your stomach, his big fingers just teasing your waistband. You take his wrist, guiding his hand further down, asking him not to hesitate.
His hand slips into your shorts, touching you over your panties. The fabric of them dampens under his fingers as he presses them against your opening, around your clit. You moan, a small breathy thing, and he’s drunk on it. Careful fingers draw small circles around the bud, being mindful of pressure and friction. You breathe into his mouth between kisses and he wants to share the same air as you forever.
“Take them off.” You tell him. It’s a gentle instruction that reminds him of the hardness straining in his jeans.
He pauses to fit his thumbs under your waistband, pulling everything down your legs. Your panties stick some where he had pressed them against you and the hunger inside him widens. You kick them off the side of the bed and Andrew takes advantage of the extra space between your legs. Two fingers drag confidently through your folds, running through your slick and spreading it over you. He brings one of them back down to tease your entrance, barely pressing in. You squirm, whining and needy.
“Inside, please.” Your hands find his face to hold him, keeping his eyes on yours, right where you want him.
He obliges.
His first finger sinks in all the way down to the knuckle and you make such a pretty sound, coloured with need and satisfaction. Andrew’s cock twitches in his jeans, the pressure of his erection becoming uncomfortable. His hips find your leg, rubbing his bulge against the outside of your thigh. You feel the size of him and it makes you even whinier. His finger fucks you slowly and he knows he’ll need to brace himself if he’s going to be inside of you.
“More.” You sound breathy.
He gives you what you’re asking for. He pulls out before adding another finger, the stretch makes your hips lift, chasing the pleasure. You make noise after noise and he feels you getting close. The heat in your stomach draws inwards and crashes over you all at once. His fingers don’t stop moving inside of you until you push his wrist away, your knees drawing up together.
His hand moves to draw you closer to him, holding you through your comedown. His fingers are wet against your side. When you come back into your body your face is flushed and your pupils are blown. Nobody has ever been more beautiful.
“Will you let me fuck you?” The question comes out smaller than he means it to.
“Are you sure?” You ask, voice soft and eyes watchful.
“Please,” He asks against your mouth.
You nod, nose brushing his. You kiss him then, your touch the softest he’s ever received.
Sitting back on his knees he unbuckles his belt and your desire deepens. He removes his jeans and his boxers before settling back on top of you, hesitant again.
“Okay?” You ask, watching his face.
“Yeah.” He says, as confidently as he can.
You roll your hips up then, catching his tip against your entrance. He makes an embarrassing noise, a high whine from the back of his throat. You don’t seem to mind though, lips chasing his as you move underneath him. His hips jerk enough against you to feel your cunt start to suck him in. He takes a deep breath in and holds it as he pushes all the way into you. He thinks he might pass out.
It’s so much; your tightness, your heat, his balls resting against you.
You kiss along his cheek, his jaw, and tell him gently to breathe. He doesn’t. He can’t, not yet, or else he’ll ruin this for you. He shifts, making a miniscule adjustment of his hips against yours, your comfort at the front of his mind. You sigh, breath warming the skin of his shoulder, and it feels like permission.
Andrew pulls back before pushing back in once, twice, over and over, slow strokes finding a rhythm he can manage to breathe through. You’re so wet, the slide of your walls easing the tight fit. He makes a broken, depraved sound and you clench around him. He can’t stop himself from doing it again creating a beautiful feedback loop, him falling apart inside of you and you getting off on his desperation.
You moan his name into his ear, against his neck. Andrew, like a plea. Andrew, like a surrender.
He fucks you faster, breath shakier. It’s overwhelming, the white hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the cavern of wanting inside his chest.
“I can’t,” It’s distressing, trying to hold out but knowing he won’t be able to. “I need–”
“Give it to me baby,” You encourage, finding your own satisfaction in his pleasure.
It feels like he’s breaking. He’s never felt so undone, so held in his undoing.
“I can’t unless– I won’t–” His eyes are shut tight, breathing through clenched teeth to try and reign himself in even an inch.
“Cum for me Andrew– need it, need you so bad.”
He wants to be good. He wants to be good but you’re so wet and you’re all he ever thinks about and you’re asking him to cum. He tries slowing his pace but it’s no good. His orgasm hits him like a car crash. His cock is twitches inside of you as he paints your cervix, hips pressed almost painfully hard into yours as he cums, releasing something like a sob. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, swallowing the sounds he makes, keeping him in this moment, tethering him to you.
He feels briefly incoherent, but he comes back to you, forehead once again pressed to yours, chests heaving in tandem. You’re cradling his jaw again, your thumbs wiping at his cheeks. He didn’t know he was crying.
“I’m sorry.” He says, voice pitching.
You kiss him and shake your head.
“You were perfect.”
“I didn’t make you cum.” He looks sick with worry above you and your heart breaks a little.
“I don’t need to, baby. I’ve never been happier.”
His face makes a devastating expression and you gather him against you, keeping your hips locked.
“This is what I want, Andrew. Just this.” Your voice carries a conviction that reaches him through the chemical rush he hasn’t recovered from. “Just this, I promise.”
X
The morning after, Andrew is up before you. You wake up to cold sheets but you hear sound from down the hall. Meyer lemon and fresh air fill your apartment. Dappled sun seeps through your windows, warming your floors. You find Andrew kneeling, rag and cleaner in hand. He looks up when he hears you.
You stand at the edge of the room and you watch each other. He slips off the cleaning gloves, resting them on the coffee table nearby, and presses his palms down against his thighs. He doesn’t know what you would like him to do with himself. He barely knows what to do with himself on his own, other than try to be useful. He’s not under the impression that he’s being normal, he knows cleaning your television stand while you’re asleep is not how he’s supposed to act the morning after having sex with someone for the first time. He wants to be good. He just wants to be good.
Then you’re moving, approaching him with sure steps. And then you’re on the floor with him, kneeling to hug him, murmuring a good morning against his skin. You’re warm from sleep and leaning against him like you’ve decided that’s your spot now. He doesn’t move, letting you rest against him, rubbing your back as you settle. Your hair smells like your detergent, your skin still smells like sex.
Later in the day, after he’s dropped you off at home, he finds a florist shop with good reviews.
“A bouquet.” He said, by way of request and explanation to the florist.
Three dozen red roses are on your step when you get back from your day, dressed with baby’s breath and greens. Arranged in their own vase, they’re a little heavy to bring inside.
You send him a message and a picture of them on your kitchen counter.
thank you andrew <3
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he has to. He’s glad you like them. He still feels sick, though. He doesn’t know whether the flowers were more of a thank you or an apology or a confession or an admission. No matter what they are, he’s just happy you’re happy.
X
It only takes a handful of small things to amount to a big problem on a job. Shit is quickly going sideways. Andrew keeps his cool, reminding his brothers to act before they can think. They’ve done this kind of run so much it’s muscle memory at this point. They make it out with exactly what they came for and a little less blood than they came with. The drive home is silent.
They file into the kitchen, Smurf waiting with desert plates and criticisms.
“What was that.” Smurf says in her way. Questions are never really questions. “You were sloppy.”
Andrew wants to protest, to remind everyone that he was the only one holding the splintering job together. Craig was careless and distracted, Deran was twitchy and eager to bolt the way he always is. But he takes his lashings and then some.
“You were distracted.” She stares at him and him only. “It’s that girl.”
Andrew is quiet. If there’s a lecture attached he just has to let it happen.
“She’s not like us, baby. She doesn’t belong here.”
“I know.” He says, because he does. He’s never wanted you here, not in this house or in this life. He’s held you away from it all because that’s never what he would want for you.
Smurf looks at him, cold and exacting and extractive. She sees exactly what he isn’t able to hide: his stupid, hopeful, bleeding heart.
“You could never be with her, you know that? You don’t belong out there having picnics and picking daisies.” She says, speaking down to the dream Andrew has kept hidden in the very back of his head for months, for his entire life. “This is it for you, Pope.”
His jaw clenches. He’s been told, ad nauseam, that his options are limited. That he’s only good for one thing. His mother, his brothers, his numerous associates and acquaintances; they all treat him with a kind of sad disinterest. A kind of fear and pity he’s never managed to grow a thick skin against.
You had never seen him like that. You had never treated him like that.
“Don’t be stupid.” Smurf murmurs, stepping closer to pull Andrew’s head to her shoulder. “She’ll only get hurt if you’re around.”
His hands are immoble, helpless at the ends of his arms. He knows what Smurf is saying. Andrew is to stop seeing you, or else she’ll be the reason harm will come your way.
He was stupid for dreaming. Stupid for thinking that maybe there could be something else for him, an out after his years of devoted service. Smurf gets what Smurf wants. Andrew gets what Smurf allows.
His brain tries to solve things that week. He’s aloof and forlorn, noticeably more so than usual. He’s tallying numbers, playing out scenarios, counting odds. He thinks about how he could get out, where he could go, where you might be open to going with him. He considers the cash he has on hand, the money he could get together, what he’d need to get you both set up. He works through the long list of allies and enemies of the Cody family, figuring who would be sent after him, who might already be after him independently. He has ideas. What he does not have is time or secrecy.
Smurf joins him at the patio table one morning.
“I heard something went down over at that place Craig likes.” She offers this as conversation, as if it’s not a loaded gun, a threat being followed through.
Pope just looks at her.
“A robbery. The staff got pretty shaken up.”
He trembles. He feels rage. Very carefully, he stands from the table and turns to walk inside.
“Pope.”
He stops.
“You know what you need to do.”
Not a question.
He keeps walking.
He stands in his room, feeling like his body is a stranger. As always, he feels more like the family dog instead of a son Smurf could love.
When Andrew punches the wall his knuckles don’t feel the impact. He feels just as dizzy and stupid and useless as when he was a kid. His life is not his own. How dare he entertain the idea that it might be.
X
The bruising around your eye is so much worse in person. You open the door with a smile and his heart drops. He feels ill.
“Andrew!” Your voice is bright, mismatched with the evidence of injury on your face.
Looking over your shoulder he can see that the roses are still on your counter, in the vase he picked because he wasn’t sure you’d have one big enough. They’ve only just now started wilting, after a week and a half.
“Are you okay?”
He keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, refusing to allow himself to hold your face, tilt it towards his.
“Oh, yeah, some guy came into the shop on Friday. It’s happened before, you know what the area can be like.” You look at him, no doubt or suspicion behind your eyes.
You don’t know. You don’t even have any idea that you’re hurt because of him. You don’t think he’s the reason that you and your coworkers were subjected to violence, were forced into a situation that did not ever have to happen.
He wants normalcy for you. He wants afternoon shifts and steady paychecks and flower bouquets and Saturday night dates. Ice cream and dinner and boardwalks, and a normal boyfriend with a normal family and normal problems. He’s not that. As much as he wants to be, he’s not that. Not now and, according to Smurf, likely not ever.
Andrew opens his mouth.
“I won’t be around.” He says. Bad start. Too vague.
Your brows pinch like you’re confused.
“You have to go? Like, away?”
He nods.
“Okay, when will you be back?”
He hesitates. “I won’t.”
Your head tilts.
“I can’t see you anymore.” He tries again. Better. Clearer.
“Is everything okay?” You ask in that soft tone, the one he only ever hears coming from you.
He doesn’t answer, eyes stuck on the vase over your shoulder.
“Did I do something?”
Of course you would think it was you. You’re good enough to see the good in Andrew before anything else.
“If I did something or if you feel overwhelmed you can tell me.”
He feels like a feral animal that you’re offering the back of your hand to.
“I just can’t.”
“I don’t mind, Andrew. Do what you have to do, I’ll be here. I–”
“No.”
“Andrew,” You’re trying to reason with him. He can’t let you. “You– you know how I feel about you.”
He’d spent the last handful of months hoping. Hoping to see you again, hoping you’d let him near you, hoping he could be something to you, hoping you would still like him even after you got to know him. He’s wanted you, so much it hurt. He had hoped, fervently, that you felt any fraction of what he felt for you. He hadn’t dared believe it. And you can’t say it now, you can’t tell him you love him or he’ll make the wrong choice. He needs to go. There’s no other option.
“Whatever you think you feel for me, you don’t. You don’t know me, and you’re nothing like me.”
It’s like you flinch. Your mouth is tight, your eyes go wet.
You’re quiet for a long time. He doesn’t leave.
“This is about her isn’t it.”
“It’s not about Smurf.” He doesn’t look at you when he answers.
An impasse. You both know you’re right.
“What did she say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But she said something.”
“She always says something, it doesn’t matter.” He forces a deep breath. “You’re not going to see me again.”
Your chin crumples and his stomach begins to cannibalise itself.
“I have to go. Don’t wait around for me.”
“Andrew–”
“I’m serious,” He says, speaking with more bite than he’s ever used with you. “Don’t. I won’t come back.”
“But you said.” Your chest contracts, your throat hot. “You said I was– I thought I was important.”
Your voice lowers on the word important, embarrassed for having to say it. You feel pathetic. You’ve never been closer to begging in your life. You had felt it, you felt the way you were both on the precipice of something beautiful and delicate and binding. You were right there. You thought you had him. You thought it was a sure thing.
He says your name in a way you don’t understand.
He still hasn’t left. He thinks he’s waiting for you to get angry. To yell or hit him or tell him what a fucking disappointment he is. He wants you to, he wants you to prove he’s right about himself. To prove he’s nothing more than mean and angry and helplessly inept. But you don’t. And that’s so much worse.
You’re still looking at him with gentleness somehow. Like you see him for what he is and you still want him. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that you still want him. Not even that you might want him, that you do want him, even now while he’s making you cry.
He takes a step back and your first tears fall. He turns before he loses his conviction, getting back into his truck without showing you his face.
X
You don’t expect to hear from him again. Men like Pope know how to disappear, how to erase fingerprints and traces. You move through the next five days in a daze, expecting to see his truck in front of your shop, your hands moving to call him before you remember.
He sends you a text two weeks later, just your name and a comma after it, like he had sent the message before he finished writing it.
You don’t know what it means.
You don’t hear from him again.
☆
