MASTERLIST ❀ A LOVE NOTE ❀ ABOUT ME ❀ WATTPAD ❀ TIKTOK
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amalia ꕥ 23 ꕥ she / her ꕥ cancer ꕥ tiny elephant ꕥ writer ꕥ mrs. andrew cody ꕥ marvel enthusiast ꕥ doe-eyed bambi ꕥ rotting & daydreaming ꕥ lover of angst
ꕤ｡˚⋆ RECENTS mirror • nothing at all • siren sounds • jealous type • boy • honeybee • stranger danger • did you miss me? • time, you & me • queen of nothing
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summary: Convinced he’s lost you forever, Pope is consumed by grief and the desperate need for revenge. As his hunt for J pushes him further toward the edge, he never realizes that vengeance may cost him the one thing he has left, his own life. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: angst!!!, series finale parallels, miscommunication, betrayal, everything that happens between pope and J in the finale with changes, police chase, gunshot wounds, unrealistic processing of a crime scene/investigation lol, pregnant!bambi, crying, julia mentions, inaccurate medical information, arguing, drowning, arson i think?, blood, near death experiences, mostly popes pov. word count: 7k amalia’s love note: guys this is one of my most favorite parts ever!!! so much talk of mother figures in this chapter and add in popes yearning for bambi, his loneliness and the miscommunication. I just thought this was the perfect title. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Pope's phone was slick with drying blood when he dialed the first number. His hands were shaking, his vision blurring at the edges, but he forced himself to focus as the line rang once, twice, three times before a gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”
“It's Pope. I need information.”
There was a pause, hesitation, fear crackling through the line. Everyone knew what had happened at Smurf's house. Everyone knew the FBI had raided them. Everyone knew the Codys were done.
“Pope, man, I can't-“
“J Cody. Where is he.”
It wasn't a question. Pope's voice was flat, dead, the kind of tone that made men confess to crimes they didn't commit. The silence stretched. Pope could hear breathing on the other end, could practically feel the fear radiating through the phone.
“I don't know, man. I swear. I haven't seen him since-“
Pope hung up. Dialed the next number. And the next. And the next.
He was sitting in his truck three blocks from your apartment complex, watching the last of the FBI vehicles pull away. The coroner's van had disappeared around the corner twenty minutes ago. The body bag was gone. You were gone. And Pope was calling every contact he had, every criminal and fence and dealer and informant who owed him a favor or feared him enough to talk.
Most of them didn't answer. The ones who did claimed they didn't know anything. Pope didn't believe them.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said into the phone, his voice carved from stone. “J Cody set us up. He tipped off the FBI. My brother got shot. And the woman I love is dead.” His voice cracked on the last word. “So you're going to tell me where he is, or I'm going to come to your house and make you tell me.”
Silence. Then: “I heard he was at Smurf's place. Cleaning it out or something. That's all I know, Pope. I swear.”
Pope hung up. Started the engine. And drove.
The city blurred past him, buildings, traffic lights, people going about their lives like the world hadn't just ended. Pope's chest throbbed. His ribs were cracked, maybe broken. Every breath sent sharp pain radiating through his torso. But he didn't care.
He should have stayed in Mexico. Should have let Craig recover. Should have waited. But he couldn't. Because you were dead and J had been the reason you died and Pope was going to make him pay.
His phone rang. Deran. Pope ignored it. It rang again. And again. Pope turned it off, shoved it in the glove compartment. He didn't want to hear Deran's voice telling him Pope, don't do this or Pope, come back or Pope, she wouldn’t want this.
Because you were dead. You didn't get to want anything anymore.
Pope's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He could still see the body bag, black, zipped, being carried out of your apartment like you were nothing. Like you were just another victim. Another statistic. Another person who'd gotten too close to the Codys and paid the price.
His vision blurred. He blinked hard. Forced himself to focus.
That was the plan. Simple. Clean. The only thing left.
Pope was two miles from Smurf's house when he turned around and went back down the street near your apartment complex. He needed to see it one more time, needed to understand what had been done. The street was quieter now, most of the FBI vehicles gone, but there were still patrol cars stationed at intervals.
Pope kept his head down, his hands steady on the wheel, his breathing controlled.
He was passing the third patrol car when the officer inside looked up. Their eyes met for half a second. Pope saw recognition flash across the cop's face, the way his hand moved toward his radio, the way his body tensed.
Fuck.
Pope's foot slammed on the gas. The truck lurched forward, engine roaring. Behind him, the patrol car's lights flashed on. The siren wailed. Pope took a hard right, tires squealing. The truck fishtailed. He corrected. Kept going.
Another patrol car appeared ahead of him, pulling out to block the intersection. Pope yanked the wheel left, cutting through a parking lot. He clipped a dumpster, sent trash flying. The patrol cars followed, sirens screaming, closing in.
Pope's mind was racing. He couldn't get caught. Not now. Not before he found J. He took another right, then a left, weaving through side streets. His chest was on fire. Every breath felt like knives. But he kept going.
He saw an alley, narrow, dark, barely wide enough for the truck. Pope didn't hesitate. He turned hard, the truck scraping against brick walls on either side. Sparks flew. Metal screamed. But he kept going, foot pressed to the floor, the alley stretching ahead like a tunnel.
The patrol cars couldn't follow. Too wide. Too slow. Pope burst out the other side and took another hard turn. He was three blocks away now, weaving through residential streets. The sirens were still behind him but farther away. He took another turn. Then another.
And then he saw the cop on foot. Young. Maybe twenty-five. Standing on the corner with his hand on his radio, eyes scanning the street. He saw Pope's truck. Saw Pope's face through the windshield.
“STOP! POLICE!”
Pope didn't stop. He turned hard, trying to get past. But the cop was already moving, running into the street, hand reaching for his gun. Pope's truck was too close. The cop jumped back, stumbled, fell. And as Pope's truck roared past, the cop rolled onto his side, pulled his weapon, and fired.
The bullet punched through the driver's side window. Glass exploded. Pope felt the impact, a white, hot lance of pain that tore through his left side, just above his hip. The bullet went clean through, exiting out his back. Blood bloomed across his shirt.
Pope's vision went white. His hands jerked on the wheel. The truck swerved, clipped a parked car, corrected. Pope pressed his hand to his side and felt the blood, hot, wet, pouring between his fingers.
Pope kept driving. His hand stayed pressed to the wound, blood soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the seat. The pain was excruciating, burning, tearing, radiating through his entire torso. But he didn't stop. He took another turn. Then another. The sirens faded behind him.
Pope pulled into an abandoned lot behind a shuttered warehouse and killed the engine. Silence. He sat there, breathing hard, his hand slick with blood. He looked down. The wound was bad, bleeding heavily, the entry and exit holes visible through his shredded shirt.
He grabbed an old t-shirt from the passenger seat, pressed it against the wound, and held it tight. It wasn't enough. The blood kept coming. But it would have to do.
Pope started the engine again. And kept driving. Smurf's house looked like a corpse. Empty. Abandoned. The windows were dark. The front door was hanging open. Yellow police tape stretched across the entrance, fluttering in the breeze. Pope parked down the street, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, staring.
This was where it had all started. Where Smurf had raised them. Where she'd controlled them. Where she'd destroyed them. And now it was empty. A shell. A grave.
Pope got out of the truck. His legs were unsteady. His side was on fire. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage and was dripping down his leg. But he forced himself to move, one step at a time, toward the house.
He ducked under the police tape and stepped inside. The smell hit him first, smoke, blood, decay. Furniture was overturned. Drawers were pulled out. Papers were scattered everywhere. Pope moved through the wreckage, his boots crunching on broken glass.
Then he heard it. A sound. From the back of the house. Pope froze. His hand instinctively reached for the gun tucked into his waistband. He moved toward the sound, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his side. He rounded the corner into the living room and stopped.
J was there. Standing in the middle of the room with a baseball bat in his hands. He was swinging it at the furniture, smashing everything in sight. A lamp exploded into pieces. A coffee table splintered. The couch cushions burst open, stuffing flying everywhere.
J's face was twisted with rage. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He was screaming. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL OF YOU!”
Pope didn't think. Didn't hesitate. He launched himself across the room.
J didn't see him coming. Pope tackled him from the side, driving him into the ground with the full weight of his body. The baseball bat flew from J's hands, clattering across the floor. J tried to fight back, throwing wild punches, but Pope was bigger, stronger, fueled by rage and grief and pain that had nowhere else to go.
Pope grabbed J's head and slammed it into the floor. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound was sickening, bone against hardwood, J's skull cracking against the surface. Blood appeared on the floor beneath J's head.
J's body went limp. His eyes rolled back. His arms fell to his sides.
Pope sat back, breathing hard, his hands covered in blood, his own, J's, he didn't know anymore. His side was screaming. Blood pooled beneath him on the floor. But he didn't stop.
He grabbed J under the arms and dragged him. Through the living room. Through the kitchen. Out the back door. Onto the patio. J's head lolled to the side, unconscious, his body a dead weight. Pope's vision swam. His legs threatened to give out. But he kept going.
He dragged J to the pool area, where a chair sat near the edge. He dropped J into the chair, then went back inside. Found rope in the garage. Came back out.
Pope tied J's wrists to the arms of the chair. Pulled the rope tight until it bit into J's skin. Tied his ankles to the legs. Pulled tighter. J wasn't going anywhere.
Pope stepped back, his chest heaving. His hand pressed against his side. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky. The world tilted. He caught himself on the edge of a table, forced himself to stay upright.
He stared at J's unconscious face. And waited.
You'd been lying in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, when the nurse finally brought your phone back. “Here you go, Ma’am. Sorry for the delay, we had to process it as evidence first, but the FBI cleared it.” She handed you the phone with a sympathetic smile. “You've got a lot of missed calls.”
You took the phone with shaking hands. Your body still ached from Smurf's attack, bruised ribs, split lip, the stitches in your temple pulling every time you moved. But you were alive. Lena was safe with a social worker. And Smurf was dead.
You unlocked the phone. Thirty-seven missed calls. Most from Deran. A few from J. And then, your breath caught, three from Pope. You checked the timestamps. 4:47 PM. 4:52 PM. 5:01 PM. The same time Smurf had been in your apartment. The same time you'd been fighting for your life.
He's alive.
The realization hit you like a physical blow. Pope was alive. He'd been calling you. He'd been trying to reach you. And you'd thought, you'd been so sure from smurfs words, that he was dead, that Craig and Deran were dead, that the FBI raid had killed them all.
You sat up too fast. Pain lanced through your ribs. The nurse had left. You were alone. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, pulled the IV from your arm, ignored the blood that welled up. You had to find him. Had to know if he was okay. Had to-
A doctor appeared in the doorway. “Ma’am, you need to stay in bed. You've suffered significant trauma and-“
“I'm leaving,” you said.
“Ma'am, I can't recommend-“
“I'm leaving AMA.” You'd seen it before during your MS4 rotations. You knew the protocol. “Get me the forms please.”
The doctor hesitated. Looked at your face, at the determination, at the desperation. He sighed. “I'll get the paperwork. But Ma’am, you're risking serious complications. Internal bleeding, infection-“
“I don't care,” you said.
Twenty minutes later, you were in a taxi, still wearing the hospital gown under your jacket, heading toward Smurf's house. You didn't know why. Didn't know if Pope would be there. But it was the only place you could think to look.
J came to slowly. His head lolled forward. He groaned. Blinked. Tried to move his hands and realized he couldn't. His eyes snapped open. He looked down at the ropes binding his wrists. Then up at Pope.
“Oh no,” J whispered. “No no no-“
“I can't listen to anymore lies, J.”
J's face went pale. His eyes darted around, looking for escape, for help, for anything. But there was nothing. Just Pope standing in front of him, face carved from stone, covered in blood.
“Pope, listen-“
“Oh no no,” Pope said, his voice flat. Dead. “We trusted you. We made you part of the family. We brought you in and we trusted you.” Pope took a step forward. His hand was still pressed to his side, blood dripping between his fingers. His eyes were hollow, empty of everything except rage. “I trusted you. I trusted you with HER!!” Pope's voice cracked on the last word. He took another step forward, looming over J. “And you set us up to die. My brothers to die. Bambi to DIE!!”
“Pope, I didn't-“
“You think you're so smart?” Pope's voice was rising now, raw and ragged. “Why did you come back here, J? To set your alibi up for when the cops show up?”
“Pope, I was coming to tell you-“
“Did you know that Smurf was going to go after Bambi?”
J hesitated. That hesitation was everything. Pope saw it, the guilt, the knowledge, the terrible truth written across J's face. “She was supposed to die in the raid,” J said quickly, the words tumbling out. “But she got away and I was coming to tell you-“
“NO MORE LIES!” Pope's roar echoed across the yard. Birds scattered from nearby trees. J flinched, pulling back as far as the ropes would allow. Pope stepped closer, his face inches from J's. Blood dripped from his side onto the concrete. His breathing was labored, each inhale a struggle. But his eyes were locked on J's. “It didn't have to be this way,” Pope said quietly. “But you are what you are and you did what you did. So you know what happens next.”
J's jaw clenched. His eyes hardened. Something shifted in his expression, from fear to defiance, from guilt to righteous anger. “You deserved it,” J said, his voice thin with emotion. “All of you. For what you did to my mother.” Pope stared at him. J leaned forward as far as the ropes would allow, his face twisted with years of buried rage. “Death was the kindest way out for Bambi,” J continued. “You never deserved her.” He leaned forward further, straining against the ropes. “YOU DESERVED IT!”
Something inside Pope snapped. He grabbed the arms of the chair and tilted it. J's eyes went wide with terror.
Pope tilted the chair further, dangling it over the edge of the pool. J struggled against the ropes, his body thrashing. The chair teetered. One more inch and he'd fall.
Pope held him there before letting him fall into the water. Watching him panic. Watching him fight. Watching him realize he was about to die. And Pope thought about Julia, about how he'd abandoned her, left her to Smurf's cruelty, left her to spiral into addiction and despair, left her to die alone.
He thought about you. About how he'd left you too. Walked away because he was too weak to fight Smurf. Too scared to protect the woman he loved. And now you were dead. They were both dead. And it was his fault. Pope's hands came up to his eyes. He paced back and forth, J still fighting in the water. His vision blurred. His chest heaved. The wound in his side tore open further with each movement. “AHHHH!” Pope's scream tore through the air, raw, primal, the sound of a man breaking apart. He jumped into the pool after J.
The water was cold. Shocking. Pope hit the surface and went under. J went deeper under with him, ropes still binding him, unable to swim, unable to fight. Bubbles erupted around them. J thrashed. Pope held him down.
But then Pope saw J's face underwater. Saw the terror. Saw Julia's eyes staring back at him, the same shape, the same color, the same desperate plea for help that he'd ignored all those years ago.
Pope grabbed J and pulled him up. They broke the surface together, both gasping, coughing. Pope dragged J to the edge of the pool. J was barely conscious, water streaming from his mouth and nose. Pope untied J and then hauled himself out, then reached down and pulled J out after him.
J collapsed on the concrete, coughing violently. Water poured from his mouth. His body convulsed. Pope sat on the edge of the pool, his feet on the first few steps, breathing deeply. His side was on fire. Blood mixed with pool water, turning the concrete pink beneath him.
Pope's hands were shaking. He stared at them, covered in blood, covered in chlorine, covered in the evidence of what he'd almost done. He'd almost killed J. Almost drowned Julia's son. Almost become exactly what Smurf had made him.
J laid out on the concrete, gasping for air. His chest heaved. Water dripped from his hair, his clothes, pooling around him.
Pope stared up at the sky. The sun was setting, painting everything orange and gold. It was beautiful. He'd forgotten the world could be beautiful. “She wanted me to be stronger than I was,” Pope said quietly. J coughed, rolled onto his side. Pope kept staring at the sky. “She wanted me to pretend that I was normal,” Pope continued. His voice broke. “And I wasn't normal.” Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the pool water still dripping from his hair. “Your mother was the strong one and I was the weak one.” He sobbed. “Even with Bambi, I was weak. She shouldn't have had to be strong.”
J rolled over, gasping, staring at Pope. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just two broken men sitting by a pool, surrounded by the wreckage of their family.
“She loved you,” J said hoarsely. “My mom always loved you. They both did.”
Pope looked at him. J's face was softer now, the rage gone, replaced by something that looked like grief. “Bambi made me promise you wouldn't get hurt,” J continued. “They were alike that way. Even after you abandoned them, they never stopped loving you. They loved all of you.” J coughed again, water spilling from his mouth. He pushed himself up to sitting, his back against the concrete. “But you didn't do shit for them. Nothing.”
Pope's face crumpled. “It's all my fault.”
“You could've helped them,” J said. “You-you could've helped me but you didn't. You know who helped me in the end? Who cared for me? Bambi.”
Pope shook his head, denial written across his face. “None of this would've happened,” he whispered. “Not your mother. Not Bambi. Not Cath. Not even fucking Baz. None of it.” He looked at J. “I should have been there for you. For your mother.” Pope's voice hardened. “But I can't let you go for what you did to Bambi.”
J's face twisted with regret. His eyes filled with tears. “I didn't-I never wanted her to get hurt. I loved her.”
The words hit Pope like a physical blow. Loved. Past tense. Because you were dead. Rage flooded back. Pope lunged forward, grabbed the back of J's head, and slammed it down onto the pavement.
J's body went lax. His eyes rolled back. His arms fell to his sides. Pope held him there for a moment, breathing hard, making sure he was still breathing. He was. Unconscious but alive. Pope was certain he hadn't killed him from the one blow.
But he didn't want to kill J by his own hand. He couldn't. He was torn between protecting his twin sister's kid and avenging the woman he loved. He realized, sitting there with J's unconscious body beside him, that he couldn't become what Smurf had made him. Couldn't let her win. Not like this.
Pope stood up, swaying. His vision blurred. He pressed his hand to his side and felt the blood, hot, wet, soaking through everything. The gunshot wound was bad. Worse than he'd thought. He could feel his strength draining with every heartbeat.
He stumbled to his truck. Grabbed the can of gasoline from the back. Walked back to the house. Pope moved through Smurf's house like a ghost. He poured gasoline on the couch. The walls. The floors. He walked through every room, methodically dousing everything. The kitchen where Smurf had made breakfast and plotted crimes. The living room where she'd held court. The hallway where family photos used to hang.
He passed through Deran's old room. Stopped. On the dresser was a photo. You. Smiling. Bright. Alive. Pope picked it up with shaking hands. He stared at your face. At the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. At the way you looked so happy. So full of life.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have protected you.
He tucked the photo inside his pocket. Kept moving. In the hallway, he found another photo. Him and Julia. Young. Maybe eight. Before everything went to hell. Before Smurf destroyed them.
Julia was laughing in the photo, her arm around Pope's shoulders. Pope was smiling, a real smile, not the hollow mask he'd worn for years. He took that photo too. Held both of them against his chest.
Then he walked back outside. Pulled out his lighter. Flicked it open. The flame danced in the darkness. Pope looked at the house one last time. Then he threw the lighter inside.
The fire caught instantly. Flames roared to life, consuming everything. The gasoline accelerated it, turning the house into an inferno within seconds. Pope stood in the yard, watching it burn. Heat washed over him. Smoke filled the air. He coughed. His hand came away from his mouth covered in blood. Not just from his side now. From his lungs. Internal bleeding. Doesn't matter. It's almost over.
Pope stumbled toward the pool. His legs gave out halfway there. He caught himself on the edge of a lounge chair. Forced himself to keep moving. One step. Then another. Until he reached the pool stairs.
He collapsed. His back hit the pavement. He stared up at the sky. Bright. Beautiful.
Pope pulled the photos from his pocket. He couldn't look at Julia's. Couldn't bear to see her face. Couldn't bear the guilt. But he looked at yours. At your smile. At your eyes. At the woman he'd loved more than anything.
His vision blurred. The photo trembled in his hand. Started to slip. He tried to hold on. Couldn't. His hand went slack. The photo fluttered to the ground beside him.
This is it. The moment I've been waiting for. I'm a dead man. And now I can see them again. Pope's eyes closed. I don't deserve to see them again. I don't deserve-
“ANDREW!”
The voice was distant. Muffled. Like it was coming from underwater. Pope didn't open his eyes. Couldn't. Footsteps. Running. Getting closer. Then hands grabbed him. Rolled him onto his back.
“Andrew-oh god-ANDREW!”
That voice. He knew that voice.
No. It can't be. She's dead. I saw the body bag. I saw-
“Andy, c'mon, please-“
Pope's eyes fluttered open. And he saw you. You were kneeling beside him. Alive. Real. Your face was bruised, purple and yellow marks across your cheekbone, your jaw. Your lip was split. There was dried blood on your temple. But you were alive.
Pope tried to speak. Nothing came out. His mouth moved but no sound emerged. You looked behind you at J, who was still unconscious by the pool, then back at Pope. Your hands moved over his body, checking for injuries. You saw the blood pooling beneath him. Saw the gunshot wound in his side.
“Oh god-oh god-“ Your voice was shaking. Your hands were shaking. You bent his legs at the knee, elevating them. Shock protocol. You'd learned it in medical school. Pope was in shock. Severe blood loss. Maybe minutes left. You turned back to J. Grabbed his wet shirt. Ripped it open, buttons flying. Pulled it off his body. Left him there. Went back to Pope.
You tied the wet shirt around his abdomen, pulling it tight, applying pressure to the wound. Pope groaned. His eyes rolled back. Blood seeped through the fabric immediately. “C'mon, please don't die, Andy, please-“ You were crying now. Tears streaming down your face, dripping onto Pope's chest. You pulled your phone from your pocket with shaking hands. Dialed 911.
“911, what's your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance. Now. 6554 West Ditmar. There's a man-he's been shot-he's losing a lot of blood-please hurry-“
“Ma'am, is the scene safe?-“
“Yes-yes-just please send someone-“
“An ambulance is on the way. Can you tell me-“
You dropped the phone. Pressed both hands against Pope's wound. Felt his blood seeping through your fingers, warm and sticky and too much. “Stay with me,” you whispered. “Please, Andy. Stay with me.”
Pope's eyes opened. Just a crack. He stared at you. His lips moved. “You're alive.” His voice was barely audible. A whisper. A prayer. “You're alive.”
“I'm here,” you said. “I'm right here. You're going to be okay. You're going to be fine.”
Pope's hand moved. Weak. Trembling. He reached for your face. You caught his hand. Pressed it against your cheek. His skin was cold. Too cold. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered. “I thought-the body bag-I saw-“
“That was Smurf,” you said quickly. “The FBI found me. They saved me. I'm okay. I'm alive.”
Pope's eyes filled with tears. They spilled over, running down his temples into his hair. “I left you.”
“I know.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
Your breath hitched. “I love you too. So you have to stay with me, okay? You have to fight. For me. For Lena. For-“ You stopped. Pope's eyes searched yours, confused, desperate. “For our baby,” you finished. “I'm pregnant, Andy. So you have to stay. You have to fight. Because I can't do this without you.”
Pope's hand tightened on yours. Just barely. But it was there. A promise. I'll fight. I'll stay. For you. For them. For us.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Getting closer. You kept pressure on the wound. Kept talking to him. Kept him conscious. Kept him alive.
“I can't lose you,” you whispered. “I can't lose you too. Not after everything. Not after-“ Your voice broke.
Pope's thumb moved against your cheek, wiping away a tear. “I'm here,” he whispered. “I'm here.”
The ambulance pulled up. Paramedics rushed over. You stepped back, letting them work. Watched them load Pope onto a stretcher. Watched them start an IV. Watched them rush him toward the ambulance.
One of the officers approached, a sergeant, older, with tired eyes. He looked at Pope, then at the house engulfed in flames behind you. The fire was massive now, consuming everything, the heat so intense you could feel it from fifty feet away. The sergeant radioed for fire trucks, then turned back to Pope.
“Andrew Cody?” the sergeant asked. You froze. Your heart stopped. No. No, they can't take him. Not now. Not after everything. But the sergeant was already looking at the house again, at the inferno destroying what had been a preserved crime scene. He looked at his partner, then back at Pope. “Get him in the ambulance,” the sergeant said.
You blinked. “What?”
The sergeant looked at you noticing the way you’d obviously come from the hospital yourself. “Ma'am, you should go with him. He's in critical condition.” He gestured to the house. “That was our crime scene. All the evidence we had on the Cody family was in there. Now it's gone. We've got nothing.”
You stared at him. “You're not-you're not arresting him?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Can't prosecute without evidence. And that-“ He pointed at the burning house. “-that's all gone now. So unless we find something else, he's free to go. Once he's stable, anyway.”
The words didn't make sense. You looked at Pope, at the paramedics loading him into the ambulance, at the house burning behind you. Free. He's free. They can't charge him. The evidence is gone. Tears streamed down your face, not from grief this time, but from relief, from joy, from the impossible realization that he wasn't going to prison.
“Ma'am?” The paramedic was calling to you. “Are you coming?”
You nodded. Climbed into the ambulance. Sat beside Pope. Held his hand. And as the ambulance pulled away, you looked back at the burning house, at Smurf's legacy going up in flames, and you started to cry. Happy tears. Grateful tears.
The ambulance ride felt endless. Pope drifted in and out of consciousness, his hand limp in yours. The paramedics worked frantically, checking his blood pressure, administering fluids, radioing ahead to the hospital. “Male, approximately forty, GSW to the left flank, severe blood loss, possible internal bleeding-“
You held his hand tighter. “Stay with me, Andy. Please. Just stay with me.”
His eyes fluttered open. He looked at you. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “You're real.”
“I'm real,” you said. “I'm here. And you're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be okay.”
The ambulance pulled up to the ER. Doctors and nurses swarmed. They pulled Pope from the ambulance, rushed him inside. You tried to follow but a nurse stopped you. “Ma'am, you need to wait here. We'll update you as soon as-“
“I need to be with him.” You pleaded “I’ll stay out of the way.”
The nurse looked at your bruised face, your hospital gown, the blood on your hands. She softened. “Okay. But we need to find you a change of clothes.”
You followed them into the trauma bay. Watched them cut away Pope's shirt, expose the gunshot wound. The bullet had gone clean through, but there was internal bleeding, his abdomen was distended, his blood pressure dropping. They prepped him for emergency surgery.
“We need to get him to the OR now,” the trauma surgeon said. “He's got maybe an hour before he bleeds out.”
They wheeled him away. You stood there, alone in the trauma bay, covered in his blood. A nurse approached. “Ma'am, let's get you cleaned up. There's a waiting room-“
“I'm not leaving,” you said.
She nodded. Brought you scrubs to change into. Brought you water. Brought you a chair. And you sat. And waited.
Two hours later, Pope's phone rang. You'd been holding it, the paramedics had given it to you along with his wallet and keys. You looked at the screen. Deran.
You answered. “Hello?”
“Bambi?” You could hear the relief in his voice.
“Deran,” you said. Your voice broke. “He's-he's in surgery. He got shot. I don't know if-“
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. For now. They're-they're trying to stop the bleeding.”
Deran exhaled. You could hear the relief in his voice. “Okay. Okay. Listen, I need to talk to him. When he wakes up. It's important.”
“What happened?” you asked. “Where’s craig? Is he-“
“Craig's alive,” Deran said. “He pulled through surgery. He's going to make it.”
You started crying. You didn’t bother asking how he got shot as relief flooded through you, Craig was alive, Pope was alive, they'd all survived. “Thank god,” you whispered. “Thank god.”
“You okay?” Deran asked.
“No but I will be.” You said.
“Listen Craig’s getting up, when Pope wakes up, tell him to call me. I need to-I need to hear his voice. Need to know he's okay.”
“I will,” you said. “I promise.”
“Love you Bambi.”
“Love you too Deerman.” You hung up. Sat there with Pope's phone in your hand. And waited.
Three hours later, the surgeon emerged. You stood up so fast the chair fell over. “How is he?”
The surgeon pulled down his mask. “He's stable. We repaired the damage to his liver and stopped the bleeding. He's lucky-another hour and he wouldn't have made it.”He looked at you. “He's asking for you.”
You followed the surgeon to the recovery room. Pope was lying in the bed, pale and weak. But his eyes were open. And when he saw you, he smiled.
You crossed the room. Sat beside him. Took his hand. “Hey,” you whispered.
“Hey,” he whispered back.
“Craig's alive,” you said. “Deran called. Craig pulled through surgery. He's going to make it.”
Pope's eyes filled with tears. He closed them, his chest heaving with silent sobs. You squeezed his hand. “It's okay. It's over. You're all okay.”
Pope opened his eyes. Looked at you. “The house-“
“Burned down,” you said. “All the evidence is gone. The cops can't charge you. You're free, Andy. You're free.”
Pope stared at you. Disbelief. Hope. Relief. All of it crashing over him at once. “Free,” he whispered.
“Free,” you repeated.
He pulled you closer. You leaned down, careful not to jostle his IV lines, and pressed your forehead against his. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” you said. “And we're going to be okay. All of us. You, me, Lena, the baby. We're going to be okay.”
Pope's hand moved to your stomach. Rested there. “Our baby,” he whispered.
“Our baby,” you confirmed.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Pope smiled. A real smile. Not the hollow mask he'd worn for so long. A smile that reached his eyes. A smile that said I'm home. I'm finally home.
You stayed there beside him. Holding his hand. Watching him breathe. Watching him live. And you knew, despite everything, despite the pain and the loss and the horror, you knew you'd made it. You'd survived. And now you were going to build the life you'd always dreamed of.
Three days later.
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of Pope's heart monitor. You stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching him sleep with Lena curled against his side. Her small hand rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. Pope's arm was wrapped protectively around her, even in sleep. The sight made your chest ache, this was what you'd been fighting for, what you'd almost lost.
You stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind you. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that sterile hospital glow. Your body still ached from Smurf's attack, bruised ribs, stitches in your temple, the constant throb of healing wounds. But you were alive. Pope was alive. Lena was safe. That was all that mattered.
You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes. Exhaustion pulled at you, bone-deep and relentless. The past seventy-two hours had been a blur of police interviews, medical tests, and sitting vigil at Pope's bedside. The FBI had cleared you, self-defense, they'd said. Smurf's body had been removed from your apartment. The crime scene had been processed. And somehow, impossibly, Pope wasn't going to prison. The evidence had burned with Smurf's house. There was nothing left to prosecute.
You opened your eyes and saw him.
J stood at the end of the hallway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he'd aged ten years in three days. His face was pale, drawn, haunted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept since the standoff. When he saw you, he stopped walking. Just stood there, twenty feet away, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to come closer.
You straightened. Your jaw tightened. The anger you'd been holding back, the hurt, the betrayal, the terror of watching the news and thinking they were all dead, it all rose up in your throat like bile.
J took a tentative step forward. “Bambi-“
“Don't.” Your voice was sharp. Cold. J flinched like you'd slapped him. “Don't say my name like we're okay. Like you didn't almost get them all killed.”
J's face crumpled. He looked down at his shoes, his shoulders hunching inward. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”
“Sorry?” You pushed off the wall and walked toward him. Your hands were shaking. You clenched them into fists. “Craig got shot, J. He almost died. Pope got shot. Deran-“ Your voice broke. You swallowed hard, forced yourself to keep going. “You promised me. You promised me they wouldn't get hurt. You said only Smurf would go down.”
“I know.” J looked up at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed, wet. “I know what I promised. And I couldn't keep it. I tried-I swear to god I tried-but I couldn't keep them out of it. I was selfish. I thought I could control it, thought I could make it clean, but I couldn't. And they got hurt because of me.”
You stared at him. At the guilt written all over his face. At the way his hands trembled in his pockets. At the boy who'd tried to save you and ended up destroying everything in the process.
“Pope said Craig flatlined twice,” you said. Your voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “Twice, J. They had to shock his heart back into rhythm. Pope drove back here thinking I was dead. He was bleeding out, shot in the side, and he still came back because he thought I was in that body bag. Do you understand what you did? Do you understand what you put them through?”
J's face twisted. A sob broke from his throat. “I know,” he choked out. “I know. And I can't-I can't take it back. I can't undo it. I thought I was protecting you. I thought if I took Smurf down, if I destroyed everything she built, you'd be safe. But I just-I just made it worse. I made everything worse.”
You looked at him for a long moment. At the boy who'd lost his mother to this family. At the boy who'd tried to avenge her and ended up repeating the same cycle of violence and destruction. At the boy who'd promised you a way out and instead dragged everyone deeper into the fire.
“You did,” you said finally. “You made it worse. You broke your promise. And I'm disappointed in you, J. I'm so disappointed.”
J nodded. Tears streamed down his face. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
The hallway was silent except for the distant sound of a nurse's station, the beep of monitors, the hum of hospital machinery. You stood there, facing each other, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on both of you.
Then you exhaled. Long and slow. Let some of the anger drain out of you. Because what was the point? What was the point of holding onto it when everyone was alive? When Craig had pulled through surgery? When Pope was sleeping in that room with Lena curled against his side? When you were all still here, still breathing, still fighting?
“But everyone's okay,” you said quietly. J looked up at you, hope flickering in his eyes. “Craig's alive. Pope's alive. Deran's alive. We all made it. Barely, but we made it.”
J's breath hitched. “They're okay?”
“They're okay.” You nodded. “Craig's still in Mexico recovering, but Deran says he's going to make it. Pope's-“ You glanced back at the hospital room door. “Pope's going to be fine. The bullet went clean through. No major damage. He'll be out of here in a few days.”
J closed his eyes. Relief washed over his face, so profound it almost brought him to his knees. “Thank god,” he whispered. “Thank god.”
“And I'm leaving,” you continued. J opened his eyes, looked at you. “I'm taking Pope and Lena and we're going to Philadelphia. We're getting out, J. We're building a new life. Away from all of this.”
J nodded slowly. “That's good,” he said. “That's-that's really good, Bambi. You deserve that. You and Lena. You deserve to get out.”
“And I can forgive you,” you said. J's eyes widened. “Because everyone's alive. Because we all made it. It's going to take time, and I'm still hurt, and I'm still angry. But I can forgive you. Eventually.”
J's face crumpled again. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to hold back another sob. “I don't deserve that,” he said. “I don't deserve your forgiveness.”
“Maybe not,” you said. “But I'm giving it to you anyway. Because I'm tired, J. I'm so tired of holding onto anger and hurt and betrayal. I just want to move forward. I just want to build something good with the people I love.”
J nodded. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I'm leaving too,” he said. “Getting out of California. I don't know where yet, but I can't stay here. Not after everything.”
“Good,” you said. “You should go. Start over somewhere new. Be someone different.”
J looked at you for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. You stiffened at first, then slowly relaxed, wrapping your arms around him. He held you tight, like he was afraid to let go. “I'm sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I'm so sorry.”
“I know,” you said. “I know you are.”
You stood there for a moment, holding each other in the middle of the hospital hallway. Two people who'd been through hell and somehow made it out the other side. Two people who'd tried to save each other and ended up destroying everything in the process. Two people who were choosing to forgive and move forward anyway.
Then J pulled back. He looked at you one last time, memorizing your face. “Take care of yourself, Bambi,” he said. “And take care of Lena. And Pope. You guys deserve to be happy.”
“You too, J,” you said. “You deserve to be happy too.”
J smiled. It was small and sad and broken, but it was real. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing down the hallway and out of your life.
You watched him go. Then you turned back to the hospital room door. Took a deep breath. And went inside.
Pope was still asleep. Lena was still curled against his side, her small body rising and falling with each breath. The heart monitor beeped steadily. The IV dripped. The room smelled like antiseptic and clean sheets and safety. You closed the door softly behind you. Kicked off your shoes. And carefully climbed into the narrow hospital bed on Pope's other side.
Pope stirred slightly. His arm moved, instinctively reaching for you even in sleep. You settled against him, careful not to jostle his IV lines or the bandage on his side. Lena shifted, her small hand reaching across Pope's chest to find yours. You took it, threading your fingers through hers.
Pope's arm tightened around both of you. He pulled you closer, his face turning toward yours. His eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, and he looked at you. Really looked at you. At the bruises on your face. At the stitches in your temple. At the exhaustion in your eyes. At the love that was still there, despite everything.
“You're still here,” he whispered.
“I'm here,” you whispered back.
“Lena?”
“She's here too. We're both here.”
Pope's eyes closed again. A tear slipped down his cheek. “I thought I lost you,” he said. “I thought-“
“I know,” you said. You reached up and wiped the tear away. “But you didn't. We're here. We're okay. We're all okay.”
Pope's hand moved to your stomach. Rested there. “The baby?”
“The baby's okay too,” you said. “We're all okay, Andy. We made it.”
Pope's breath hitched. He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. Lena stirred between you, mumbling something in her sleep. You wrapped your arm around both of them, holding them close, feeling their warmth, their breath, their life.
This was your family. Broken and bruised and barely held together. But yours. And you were going to protect it. You were going to build something good with it. You were going to take them to Philadelphia and start over and give Lena and your baby the life they deserved.
You closed your eyes. Let the exhaustion finally pull you under. Let yourself drift off to sleep with Pope's arm around you and Lena's hand in yours and the steady beep of the heart monitor reminding you that you were all still here.
Still breathing. Still fighting. Still alive. And that was enough.
A round robin smutty AU crackfic set in the shawn hatosy character multiverse, now dropping on AO3.
FOLLOW POST FOR UPDATES
Synopsis: You’ve unwittingly engineered the technology that’s now being used to erase all variants in the Hatosyverse, and there’s only one way to save them.
“Hey I just met you
And this is crazy!
I’m here to save you-
So fuck me, baby”
Featuring: Stan Rosado, Brett Richards, Sammy Bryant, Charlie Reid, Grant Reilly, Pope Cody, Jack Abbot, fem!reader who has to save them all <3, and Titus Danforth
*_*_*_CHECK AO3 FOR STORY AND CHAPTER TAGS_*_*_*
ALL CHAPTER LINKS
Chapter 1: Prologue (Mad)
Chapter 2: Stan Rosado (The Faculty)*
Chapter 3: Brett Richards (Fire Country)*
Chapter 4: Titus Interlude (Ready Or Not 2) by @dominowaverly
Chapter 5: Sammy Bryant (SouthLAnd)
Chapter 6: (unreleased)
Chapter 7: (unreleased)
Chapter 8: (unreleased)
Chapter 9: (unreleased)
Chapter 10: (unreleased) by thedivinegirlyp0p
Chapter 11: (unreleased)
Chapter 12: (unreleased)
i contributed words to chapters marked with an asterisk (*)
summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, major character death, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 123.4k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall. this masterlist is ever changing and parts are being added inbetween updates as i go!! NOTE! this fic does not have a taglist, to be notified of updates pls follow this blog and turn on post notifs <3
doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)
After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.
take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)
After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.
i love the sick (angst, dark)
What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.
all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)
One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.
mirror (fluff, angst)
Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.
nothing at all (dark, smut, angst)
A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you.
siren sounds (angst, smut)
Smurf draws a line in the sand, and suddenly everything you love is at risk. Forced into an impossible choice, you tell a lie that could cost you everything to protect the person who matters most.
jealous type (smut, angst)
Jealousy isn’t your best look. According to Pope, though, it’s definitely your hottest. A harmless night out quickly turns into a game neither of you has any interest in losing.
boy (fluff, angst)
For the first time in your life, Craig Cody is speechless. Beneath the jokes and bad decisions is a man standing at a crossroads, trying to figure out whether he’s capable of becoming someone different than the people who raised him.
honeybee (angst)
For someone who’s spent their entire life expecting loss, happiness can feel just as frightening as heartbreak. As your relationship with Pope deepens, you’re left navigating the uncomfortable reality that the more you love something, the more there is to lose.
stranger danger (dark, angst)
Life. Death. Maybe the line between them was never as wide as people liked to believe. Sometimes it all comes down to a single choice, a single second, and when the dust settles, one person gets to keep living while another doesn’t.
did you miss me? (dark, angst)
Some moments divide your life into two parts: the person you were before, and the person you have to become after.
Time, You & Me (dark, angst)
You always imagined forever would be enough. You never considered forever might end six feet underground.
queen of nothing (angst, dark)
Separated by circumstance, Pope is forced to make a decision that unknowingly places you in danger. In return, you’re willing to shoulder decades of his pain, proving just how far you’ll go for the man you love.
summary: Separated by circumstance, Pope is forced to make a decision that unknowingly places you in danger. In return, you’re willing to shoulder decades of his pain, proving just how far you’ll go for the man you love. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: ANGST!!!, smurf , canon violence, guns, bullet wounds, swat raid, major character death, inaccurate medical information, this is def not possible of them in real life lol, blood, crying, deran is going through it, pope goes insane, craig’s inner monologue (it’s not funny…), J fucks them over, physical alterations, psychological torture. word count: 13.1k amalia’s love note: I redid the stand off scene so if it sounds different from the previous part that’s why, I thought it needed more detail and suspense lol besides who am I if im not constantly rewriting my work. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
The FBI moved in at 6:47 PM. J had sent the email three days earlier. Anonymous. Untraceable. Routed through seven different VPN servers and a burner account created on a public library computer. He'd given them everything, GPS coordinates for weapons caches, addresses of safe houses, bank account numbers, names, photos, detailed descriptions of escape routes. Everything they needed to take down the entire Cody operation in one coordinated strike.
And now they were here.
Black SUVs blocked every exit from Smurf's street. Unmarked sedans lined the curbs. SWAT vans idled at both ends of the block, their engines rumbling like predators waiting to pounce. Agents in tactical gear moved into position with military precision, some crouched behind vehicles, others positioned on neighboring rooftops with sniper rifles, all of them focused on the house at the center of the web.
The house where Smurf had built her empire. The house where everything was about to end.
Inside, Pope stood at the window and watched the vehicles arrive. His stomach dropped. His hands went cold. He turned to look at Craig, who was standing in the kitchen doorway with a beer halfway to his lips, frozen mid-drink.
“What the fuck?” Craig whispered.
Deran came running from the back of the house. “We've got company out back too. At least six vehicles. Maybe more.”
Smurf appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing a white silk blouse and dark jeans, her hair perfectly styled, her face calm. But her eyes, her eyes were sharp and calculating, already running through contingency plans, already looking for the exit that didn't exist.
“How many?” she asked.
“Too many,” Pope said flatly.
The bullhorn crackled to life outside.
“THIS IS THE FBI. THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. AFTER THAT, WE'RE COMING IN.”
The voice echoed through the neighborhood. Dogs started barking. Neighbors peered through windows. Someone screamed.
Smurf walked down the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister. She looked almost serene. Almost. But Pope could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw was clenched, the fury building behind her eyes.
“Someone talked,” she said quietly.
“No shit,” Craig muttered.
“Who?” Smurf's voice was ice.
Pope's mind was racing. Who would've given them everything? Who had access to all their locations, all their operations, all their-
J.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. J had done this. J had burned them all.
Smurf was staring at him. “You know who it was.”
Pope didn't answer.
“POPE.”
“It doesn't matter now,” he said. “We need to get out.”
“There is no out,” Deran said. He was pacing, running his hands through his hair. “They've got us boxed in. Every exit is covered. Every escape route is blocked. They knew exactly where to position themselves.”
Because J had told them. J had given them the blueprints. J had handed them the keys to the kingdom.
Smurf walked to the window and looked out at the agents. At the guns. At the end of everything she'd built. Her face was expressionless, but Pope could see her mind working, calculating, searching for the angle that would save her.
“We're not surrendering,” she said.
Craig stared at her. “What?”
“I said we're not surrendering.”
“Smurf, there's no way-“
“I SAID WE'RE NOT SURRENDERING.”
Her voice cracked through the room like a whip. Craig flinched. Deran stopped pacing. Pope just looked at her, and for the first time in his life, he saw her clearly.
She was going to get them all killed. She'd rather die than lose. She'd rather take them all down with her than admit defeat.
“YOU HAVE FOUR MINUTES.”
Smurf turned away from the window. “Get the guns.”
“Smurf-“
“GET THE FUCKING GUNS.”
Pope looked at Craig. At Deran. They were trapped. There was no talking her down. No reasoning with her. She'd made her choice. And they were going to pay for it.
Craig moved first. He went to the safe in the living room and pulled out an AR-15. Checked the magazine. Loaded it. His hands were shaking. Deran grabbed a shotgun. Pope took a Glock and shoved it into his waistband, then grabbed another rifle.
This was insane.
This was suicide.
But what choice did they have?
“YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES.”
Smurf was loading her own weapon now. A small pistol. Elegant. Deadly. She looked at her sons with something that might've been pride or might've been madness.
“We fight,” she said. “We don't go down without a fight.”
Pope wanted to scream at her. Wanted to tell her this was her fault. Wanted to tell her that she'd destroyed them all with her need for control, her paranoia, her refusal to let them have anything that wasn't hers.
But he didn't. Because there was no time.
“YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES.”
They took positions throughout the house. Pope at the front window. Craig at the side. Deran covering the back. Smurf in the center, orchestrating, commanding, still playing queen even as her kingdom burned.
The seconds ticked by.
Pope's heart was hammering. His palms were sweating. He thought about you. About Lena. About the life he'd walked away from to protect you. And now he was going to die here.
In this house. With his mother. Fighting a battle they couldn't win.
“YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE.”
Craig looked at Pope across the room. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He mouthed something that might've been I'm sorry or might've been I love you or might've been nothing at all.
Pope nodded. I know. Me too.
“YOUR TIME IS UP. WE'RE COMING IN.”
The first flashbang came through the front window. The explosion was deafening. Blinding white light filled the room. Pope's ears rang. He couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't think. He stumbled backward, trying to orient himself, trying to-
Another flashbang. Then another.
Smoke grenades followed, filling the house with thick gray smoke that burned his lungs and made his eyes water. He was coughing, choking, trying to breathe through the chaos.
The front door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. The frame buckled. SWAT poured through the opening like a flood, black-clad figures with rifles and shields, moving with practiced precision, shouting commands that overlapped into a wall of noise.
“GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!”
“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
Pope raised his rifle. Fired. He wasn't aiming. Couldn't see through the smoke. Just pulled the trigger and hoped-
Gunfire erupted from every direction.
The sound was apocalyptic. Bullets tore through walls, shattered windows, ripped through furniture. Plaster exploded in white clouds. Picture frames fell and shattered. The TV screen spiderwebbed and went dark. Pope dove behind the couch.
Bullets chewed through the cushions above his head, sending stuffing flying like snow. He could hear Craig screaming something from the other room. Could hear Deran's shotgun booming. Could hear Smurf's voice cutting through the chaos, still giving orders, still trying to control the uncontrollable.
An agent appeared through the smoke. Pope fired. The agent went down. Pope didn't know if he'd killed him or just wounded him or missed entirely. Didn't have time to think about it. Another agent was already there, and another, and another-
They were everywhere. The house was full of them. There was no escape.
No exit. No way out. Pope fired until his magazine was empty. Ejected it. Reached for another. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it. Loaded it. Raised the rifle again, A bullet grazed his shoulder.
Pain exploded through his arm. Hot. Sharp. Immediate. He gasped and stumbled, nearly dropping the rifle. Blood soaked through his shirt. Not a direct hit. Just a graze. But it hurt like hell and his arm wasn't working right.
He could hear Craig in the next room, still firing. Could hear the distinctive boom of Deran's shotgun. Could hear Smurf's pistol cracking like a whip.
They were still fighting. Still trying. Still refusing to surrender. And they were going to die here. All of them.
Craig was behind the kitchen island. He'd been firing through the doorway, trying to keep the agents from advancing through the side entrance. His gun was hot in his hands. His ears were ringing from the constant barrage of gunfire. Smoke burned his lungs with every breath.
He ducked down to reload. That's when he saw the red dot. It appeared on his chest like a tiny star. Laser sight. Sniper. He had maybe half a second to process what it meant before-
The shot came from somewhere outside.
Through the kitchen window. The bullet punched through the glass with a sharp crack and hit Craig square in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet. He flew backward and hit the floor hard, his gun clattering away across the tile. For a moment, he didn't feel anything. Just confusion. Just the sense that something had gone very, very wrong.
Then the pain hit. It was like being stabbed with a white-hot poker. Like his chest was caving in. Like his lungs were collapsing. He tried to breathe and couldn't. Tried to move and couldn't. Tried to scream and only managed a wet, choking gasp.
Blood. So much blood.
It was spreading across his chest, soaking through his shirt, pooling beneath him on the kitchen floor. Dark. Thick. Unstoppable. He could feel it pumping out with every heartbeat, could feel his life draining away with every pulse.
He looked down.
The wound was just left of center. Right where his heart was. The bullet had gone clean through, he could see the exit wound in his back when he tried to move, could see the blood spreading beneath him in a widening circle.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
He was going to die. He was going to die right here on the kitchen floor while agents swarmed the house and his family fought and died around him.
He tried to call for help. Tried to say Pope's name. But all that came out was blood.
It bubbled up from his mouth, hot and metallic, choking him. He coughed and more blood came. His vision was starting to blur. The edges were going dark. The pain was fading into a strange numbness that was somehow worse than the agony.
No. Not like this. Please not like this.
He could hear Pope shouting something from the other room. Could hear Deran's voice, high and panicked. Could hear footsteps running toward him.
Then Pope was there. Kneeling beside him. Hands pressing against the wound.
“CRAIG! CRAIG, STAY WITH ME!”
Craig tried to answer. Couldn't. More blood.
Pope's face was white. His eyes were wild. His hands were covered in Craig's blood, pressing down hard, trying to stop the bleeding. But there was too much. It was everywhere. Soaking through Pope's fingers, pooling on the floor, spreading and spreading and spreading.
“You're okay,” Pope was saying. “You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just stay with me-“
But Craig could see the truth in his brother's eyes. He wasn't okay. He was dying.
Deran appeared beside Pope. His face went gray when he saw the wound. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Pope, we need to-“
“HELP ME GET HIM UP!”
They grabbed Craig under the arms. Tried to lift him. Craig screamed, or tried to. The sound came out as a wet gurgle. Pain exploded through his chest. His vision went white. He could feel his body shutting down, could feel his heart struggling to pump blood that was no longer there.
“We have to move,” Pope was saying. “We have to get him out of here. NOW.”
Gunfire was still erupting around them. Bullets punched through the walls. Glass shattered. Someone was screaming. Craig couldn't tell if it was him or someone else or everyone all at once.
They dragged him toward the back door.
His feet scraped across the floor, leaving a trail of blood. His head lolled. His vision kept fading in and out. He could see Pope's face above him, could see the terror and determination and love, could see his brother refusing to let him go.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you.
He tried to say it. Couldn't. The darkness was closing in.
Pope and Deran dragged Craig through the back door and into the yard. Bullets chewed up the ground around them. Agents were shouting. Flashlights swept through the smoke. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood and burning wood.
Craig's body was dead weight between them. His head hung forward. Blood dripped from his mouth. His chest wasn't moving right, shallow, gasping breaths that sounded wet and wrong.
“Stay with me,” Pope kept saying. “Stay with me, Craig. Don't you fucking die on me.”
Deran was crying. Tears streaked through the dirt and ash on his face. “Where's the truck? Pope, where's the-“
“THERE!”
Pope's truck was parked at the end of the alley. Fifty yards away. Might as well have been fifty miles. They ran, half-carrying, half-dragging Craig between them. Pope's shoulder screamed where the bullet had grazed him. His hands were slick with his brother's blood. His lungs burned.
Behind them, the house was chaos. Gunfire. Explosions. Screaming.
And Smurf was still in there. Pope didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Because if he did, he'd stop. He'd go back for her. And Craig would die.
Choose.
That's what it came down to. His mother or his brother. The woman who'd raised him or the boy who he’d raised himself.
It wasn't a choice at all. They reached the truck.
Deran yanked open the back door. They shoved Craig inside as gently as they could, which wasn't gentle at all. Craig's head hit the seat. He didn't react. Didn't move. Didn't make a sound.
Pope climbed in beside him. Pressed his hands against the wound again. Blood pulsed between his fingers.
Too much. There's too much blood. He's dying.
“DRIVE!” Pope screamed ripping his shirt and stuffing it into craig’s wound.
Deran threw himself into the driver's seat. Started the engine. The truck roared to life. He slammed it into gear and floored it, tires screeching as they peeled out of the alley.
Agents shouted behind them. Someone fired. The back window exploded. Glass rained down on Pope and Craig.
Deran didn't slow down. He drove like a man possessed, weaving through side streets, running red lights, taking corners so fast the truck nearly flipped. Pope braced himself against the door with one hand and kept pressure on Craig's wound with the other.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Please, Craig. Please stay with me.”
Craig's eyes fluttered open. He looked at Pope. Tried to say something. Blood bubbled from his lips. His eyes closed again.
“NO!” Pope shook him. “Craig! CRAIG!”
“Is he-“ Deran's voice cracked. “Pope, is he-“
“Just drive. JUST FUCKING DRIVE.”
Deran drove. Away from the house. Away from the FBI. Away from Smurf. Away from everything.
And Pope sat in the back seat covered in his brother's blood, watching Craig's chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths, and wondered if they'd just traded one death for another.
Smurf was in the living room when she realized they were gone. She'd been firing through the front window, taking calculated shots at the agents advancing on the house. Her pistol was almost empty. Her ears were ringing. Smoke burned her lungs. But she was still standing. Still fighting. Still refusing to surrender.
“Pope!” she called. “Craig! Deran!”
No answer. Just gunfire. Just chaos. Just the sound of her empire crumbling around her.
“POPE!”
Still nothing. She turned. The kitchen was empty. The hallway was empty. The back door was hanging open, swinging in the breeze. They were gone. They'd left her.
The realization hit her like a physical blow.
Her sons, her boys, the ones she'd raised and protected and controlled and loved, had abandoned her.
They'd chosen to save themselves. They'd chosen to save Craig. They'd chosen each other over her.
Rage exploded through her chest. White-hot. Blinding.
All-consuming.
“YOU FUCKING COWARDS!” she screamed.
An agent appeared in the doorway. Smurf fired. The agent went down. Another took his place. Smurf fired again.
Click. Empty.
She threw the gun at the agent and ran. Through the kitchen. Through the hallway. Toward the back door. Bullets chased her, punching through walls, shattering picture frames, destroying everything in their path.
She made it to the door. Stumbled outside.
The yard was full of smoke and chaos. Agents were everywhere. Flashlights swept through the darkness. Someone was shouting orders.
Smurf ran. She didn't know where she was going. Didn't care. Just ran. Through the yard. Over the fence. Into the alley. Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But she didn't stop.
Behind her, the house exploded. Not literally. But it might as well have. Flashbangs. Smoke grenades. The sound of wood splintering and glass shattering and her entire life being torn apart.
She kept running. Through alleys. Through yards. Through the dark spaces between houses where the FBI's lights couldn't reach.
She was bleeding. A bullet had grazed her side, she didn't even remember when it had happened. Blood soaked through her white silk blouse, turning it red. Her hair had come loose from its perfect style and hung in wild tangles around her face. Ash and dirt streaked her skin.
She looked like a ghost. Like a monster. Like a queen who'd lost her kingdom. But she was alive. And she was furious. Because her sons had left her.
They'd chosen to save Craig instead of coming back for her. They'd chosen each other instead of choosing her. They'd chosen you instead of choosing her.
Because that's what this was really about.
You.
The woman who'd poisoned her boys against her. The woman who'd shown them a different life. The woman who'd made them believe they could be something other than what Smurf had made them.
You had taken everything from her.
And now Smurf was going to take everything from you.
She stopped running. Leaned against a wall. Caught her breath. Her side was on fire. Her lungs burned. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might explode.
But her mind was clear. Crystal clear. She knew exactly where she was going. She knew exactly what she was going to do.
Your apartment was fifteen minutes away. Smurf started walking.
You weren’t watching the news when it started. You'd been trying to distract yourself. Trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Pope had been gone for days and hadn't called. Trying not to think about the way he'd looked at you before he left. Trying not to wonder if he was ever coming back.
The TV was on in the background. Some mindless reality show. You weren't really watching as you packed Lena’s whole life into boxes. Then the programming cut out.
“WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST FOR BREAKING NEWS.”
You looked up. The screen showed a house. Smurf's house. You recognized it immediately. Your stomach dropped.
“We're coming to you live from Oceanside where a massive FBI operation is currently underway. Multiple agencies have surrounded this residence in what appears to be a coordinated raid on an organized crime operation.”
The camera showed the street. Black SUVs. SWAT vans. Agents in tactical gear. Guns. So many guns.
“We're hearing reports of gunfire inside the residence. Authorities are urging residents to stay indoors and away from windows.”
Your hands started shaking. Pope was in there. Craig was in there. Deran was in there.
They were all in there. And the FBI was-
Gunfire erupted on the screen.
You could hear it through the TV. Sharp cracks. Rapid bursts. The sound of automatic weapons and explosions and chaos.
You grabbed your phone. Called Pope. It went straight to voicemail. You called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
“No,” you whispered. “No no no no no.”
You called Deran. Voicemail. Craig. Voicemail. J. It rang. And rang. And rang. No answer.
You were standing now. Pacing. Your heart was hammering. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone.
On the TV, the standoff continued.
“We're seeing movement inside the house. It appears-yes, there's definitely gunfire. Multiple shots. This is an active situation.”
The camera zoomed in. You could see muzzle flashes through the windows. Could see smoke pouring out. Could see agents taking cover behind vehicles.
Could see- An explosion.
The front door blew inward. SWAT poured inside. More gunfire. More chaos.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please be okay. Please be alive. Please-“
Your phone rang. You nearly dropped it. Looked at the screen. Unknown number. You answered. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello? Andrew? Is that you?”
More silence. Then a click. They'd hung up. You stared at the phone. Tried to call back. The number didn't exist.
You threw the phone on the couch. Went back to watching the TV. The standoff was still happening. Agents were still surrounding the house. Gunfire was still erupting. And you had no idea if Pope was alive or dead. If any of them were alive or dead. If you'd just watched the man you loved die on live television. You sank onto the couch. Put your head in your hands. And tried not to scream.
The standoff lasted another twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of gunfire and explosions and chaos.
Twenty minutes of you sitting on the couch, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything except watch and pray and hope.
Then it ended. The gunfire stopped. The smoke cleared. Agents moved into the house. The news anchor's voice was somber.
“It appears the standoff has concluded. We're seeing agents entering the residence now. No word yet on casualties or arrests. We'll continue to bring you updates as we receive them.”
You waited. And waited. And waited. Your phone didn't ring. No one called. No one texted. Nothing. Just silence.
Just the terrible, suffocating silence of not knowing. You tried calling Pope again.
Voicemail. Deran. Voicemail. Craig. Voicemail. They were dead.
They had to be dead. There was no other explanation. The FBI had killed them. All of them.
And you were alone. Again. Always alone.
You curled up on the couch. Pulled your knees to your chest. And let yourself break.
A knock came thirty minutes later.
You'd been sitting on the couch in the dark. The TV was still on, still showing footage of the house, still replaying the standoff over and over. But you weren't watching anymore. You were just staring at nothing. Feeling nothing. Thinking nothing. Numb.
Then the knock. Three sharp raps on the door. Your heart stopped. You stood up. Walked to the door. Your hands were shaking.
It's Pope.
It has to be Pope.
He got out. He's alive. He's here.
You didn't check the peephole. Didn't ask who it was. Just unlocked the door. Pulled it open. And froze.
It wasn't Pope. It was Smurf.
She stood in the hallway like something out of a nightmare. Her white silk blouse was soaked with blood, some of it hers, some of it probably not. Her jeans were torn and filthy. Ash and dirt streaked her face. Her hair hung in wild, tangled strands around her shoulders. A cut above her eyebrow bled freely, the blood running down the side of her face and dripping from her jaw.
But it was her eyes that made you freeze. They were absolutely unhinged.
Wild. Feral.
Burning with a rage so intense it was almost physical.
She was breathing heavily. Her chest heaved with each breath. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She looked like an animal. Like something that had crawled out of hell specifically to destroy you.
You took a step back. “Smurf-“
She didn't let you finish. Smurf lunged.
She grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you forward with brutal force. You screamed. Pain exploded across your scalp. She dragged you into the apartment and slammed the door behind her with her foot.
Then she hit you. Her fist connected with your face with a sickening crack.
Your head snapped to the side. Pain burst through your cheek, your jaw, your eye. You tasted blood immediately, hot and metallic, flooding your mouth. Your vision blurred. Your ears rang.
You stumbled backward. Tried to catch yourself. Couldn't. Fell. Hit the floor hard.
Smurf was on you before you could move. She grabbed your hair again. Yanked your head back. Leaned down so her face was inches from yours. Her breath was hot and ragged. Her eyes were insane.
“You took everything from me,” she hissed.
Then she hit you again. And again. And again.
Smurf beat you with the methodical precision of someone who'd done this before. She knew where to hit to cause maximum pain.
Knew how to make it hurt. Knew how to break you. Her fist slammed into your ribs. You felt something crack. The pain was blinding. You tried to curl into a ball, tried to protect yourself, but she grabbed your arm and wrenched it back, forcing you flat.
She hit you in the stomach. The air left your lungs in a rush. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except gasp and choke and try to survive.
Blood poured from your nose. You could feel it running down your face, hot and thick, dripping onto the floor. Your mouth was full of it. You tried to spit it out and only managed to choke.
Smurf grabbed you by the throat.
Her fingers dug into your windpipe. She lifted you, actually lifted you, and slammed you against the wall. Your head hit the plaster with a sickening thud. Stars exploded across your vision. The world tilted.
She leaned in close. “You think you can take my boys from me?” she snarled. “You think you can poison them against me? You think you can destroy my family?”
She kneed you in the stomach.
The pain was indescribable. You doubled over, or tried to. Her hand was still around your throat, holding you up, choking you. You clawed at her fingers. Tried to pry them away. Couldn't. She was too strong. Too angry. Too far gone.
“They're MINE,” she hissed. “They've always been mine. And you, you're NOTHING.”
She threw you. You hit the coffee table. It shattered beneath you. Glass and wood exploded. Shards cut into your back, your arms, your legs. You screamed. Tried to roll away. Tried to get up.
Smurf kicked you in the ribs. You heard the crack before you felt the pain. Then the pain hit and it was like being stabbed with a hot knife. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except lie there and bleed and hurt.
She kicked you again. And again.
Each impact sent fresh waves of agony through your body. You could feel bones breaking. Could feel blood pooling beneath you. Could feel yourself shutting down.
I'm going to die.
She's going to kill me.
Smurf grabbed your hair again. Dragged you across the floor. Glass cut into your skin. Blood smeared across the hardwood. You tried to fight back. Tried to grab her wrist. Tried to do anything.
She slammed your face into the floor.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Your nose broke. The sound was wet and crunching and horrible. Blood exploded across your face. Pain whited out your vision. You couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't think.
Just pain. Just blood. Just the terrible certainty that you were going to die.
Smurf flipped you onto your back. Straddled you. Pinned you down with her weight. Her hands wrapped around your throat again.
Squeezed. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't get air. Your lungs burned.
Your vision started to go dark around the edges. And Smurf leaned down and smiled.
“They're dead,” she whispered. Your eyes widened. “Pope. Craig. Deran. All of them. The FBI killed them. I watched them die.”
No.
No no no no no.
“Pope died first. Took a bullet to the chest. Bled out in seconds. He called your name. Did you know that? His last word was your name.”
You tried to shake your head. Tried to tell her she was lying. You couldn't. Her hands were too tight. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except stare up at her and feel your heart shatter.
“Craig went next. Shot in the head. Didn't even see it coming. Just-“ She made a gun with her fingers. “-gone.”
Tears streamed down your face. Mixed with the blood. Dripped onto the floor.
“And Deran. Poor Deran. He tried to run. They shot him in the back. He crawled for a while. Begged them to stop. They didn't.”
She's lying. She has to be lying. Please let her be lying.
“They're all dead,” Smurf said. “And it's your fault. You did this. You took them from me. You poisoned them. You destroyed them. And now they're gone.” She leaned closer. Her face was inches from yours. Her eyes were wild. Insane. Triumphant.
“I'm the queen,” she whispered. “I've always been the queen. And you-you're nothing. You're nobody. You're just some little girl who thought she could take what was mine.”
She squeezed harder. Your vision was going black. Your lungs were screaming. Your heart was slowing. This is it. This is how I die. Lena will come home and find me and-
Lena.
The thought hit you like lightning.
Lena. Your daughter. Your baby. The little girl who'd already lost so much. Who'd already been abandoned and hurt and traumatized.
Who was counting on you. Who needed you. Who loved you. No. I'm not dying here. I'm not leaving her. I'm not letting this bitch win.
Something shifted inside you. Something primal. Something fierce. Something that had been sleeping woke up. And it was angry.
Your hand moved. You didn't think about it. Didn't plan it. Just moved. Your fingers found a shard of glass from the broken coffee table. Large. Sharp. Perfect. You grabbed it. Felt it cut into your palm. Didn't care. And you drove it into Smurf's side.
She screamed. Her hands released your throat. You gasped. Air flooded your lungs. Sweet. Precious. Life.
Smurf stumbled backward. Looked down at the glass protruding from her side. Looked back at you. Her face was shocked. Disbelieving. You didn't give her time to recover. You lunged. Tackled her.
Drove her backward. She hit the wall. You hit her.
Your fist connected with her face. Her head snapped back. Blood exploded from her nose. She tried to push you away. You hit her again. And again. And again. All the rage. All the pain. All the fear and grief and fury.
It poured out of you. You weren't thinking. Just fighting. Just surviving. Just refusing to die.
Smurf grabbed your hair. Yanked. You screamed. She threw you off. You hit the floor. Rolled. Came up on your knees.
Smurf was standing now. The glass was still in her side. Blood soaked through her blouse. Her face was a mask of rage and pain and disbelief.
“You little BITCH,” she snarled.
She came at you again. You scrambled backward. Your hand hit something. The lamp. You grabbed it. Swung. It connected with Smurf's head with a sickening crack.
She stumbled. Fell to one knee. You hit her again. The lamp shattered. Smurf collapsed.
You stood over her. Breathing hard. Bleeding. Broken. But alive.
Smurf tried to get up. You kicked her. She fell back down. Tried again. You kicked her again.
She looked up at you.
Blood ran from a cut on her forehead. Her nose was broken. Her eyes were still wild but now there was something else in them.
Fear. She was afraid. Of you.
“You can't-“ she gasped. “You can't do this. I'm—I'm the-“
“You're nothing,” you said. Your voice was hoarse. Raw. Barely recognizable. You looked around. Saw the kitchen. Saw the knife block on the counter. You walked over.
Pulled out the largest knife. Turned back to Smurf. She was trying to crawl away. Leaving a trail of blood across your floor. You followed her.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please don't-“
“So you can dish it but you can’t take it huh.” you said quietly.
You knelt beside her. Grabbed her hair. Yanked her head back. Pressed the knife to her throat.
“You took everything from me Janine. I’ve killed a man because of you, I lost Andrew because of YOU!”
Tears streamed down Smurf's face. “I'm sorry,” she gasped. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean-“
“Yes you did.” You pressed the knife harder. A thin line of blood appeared. “You meant every word. You want me to suffer. You want me to break. You want me to die believing I'd destroyed them.”
“Please-“
“But you were wrong.” You leaned closer. Your face was inches from hers. Blood dripped from your nose onto her face. “I didn't destroy them. You did. You destroyed everything you touched. You poisoned your own sons. You turned them into criminals. You made them afraid to love anyone but you.”
“That's not-“
“And now you're going to die knowing they chose me over you.” Smurf's eyes widened. “They hate you,” you whispered. “They hate what you’ve made them. I freed them from that, you mean nothing to them anymore.”
“No-“
“They don't love you anymore, Smurf. They're done with you. And you know what? I don't think they ever really loved you at all. They were just afraid of you.”
Smurf was sobbing now. Full, broken sobs. “Please,” she begged. “Please don't kill me. Please. I'll leave. I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. Just please-“
You looked at her. This woman who'd terrorized you. Who'd tried to destroy you. Who'd beaten you and choked you and told you the man you loved was dead.
This woman who'd controlled and manipulated and poisoned everyone she touched. This woman who'd rather die than lose control.
And you realized something. You didn't want to kill her. You weren't a killer. You weren't like her. But you also couldn't let her live. Because if you did, she'd come back. She'd hurt you again. She'd hurt Lena. She'd never stop.
Never.
So you had to stop her. You had to end this. For Lena. For yourself. For all of them.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered. And you meant it. You were sorry it had come to this. Sorry that she'd forced your hand. Sorry that this was the only way. But you weren't sorry enough to stop.
You drove the knife into her throat. Smurf's eyes went wide. She tried to scream. Couldn't.
Blood poured from the wound. Hot. Dark. Arterial. It sprayed across your face, your chest, your hands. You didn't let go. Didn't pull back. Just held the knife there and watched her die.
She clawed at your hands. Her nails raked across your skin. Drew blood. You didn't move.
She tried to push you away. Couldn't. Her strength was fading. Her movements were getting weaker. Slower.
Her eyes were still locked on yours. Still wild. Still furious. Still disbelieving. Blood bubbled from her mouth. Ran down her chin. Pooled beneath her head. Her hands fell away from yours. Dropped to the floor. Her chest heaved. Once. Twice. Then stopped.
Her eyes stared at nothing. Empty. Blank. Dead.
You held the knife for another moment. Making sure. Making absolutely sure.
Then you pulled it out. Blood gushed from the wound. Soaked into the floor. Spread in a dark pool around her head.
You dropped the knife. It clattered on the hardwood. You stood up. Looked down at her.
Smurf lay on your floor in a spreading pool of blood. Her white silk blouse was completely red now. Her hair was splayed out around her head like a broken crown, wild and tangled and soaked with blood. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.
She looked small. Pathetic. Nothing like the terrifying matriarch who'd controlled an entire criminal empire. Nothing like the woman who'd beaten you half to death.
Just a corpse. Just a body. Just the end.
You stood over her. Breathing hard. Shaking.
Blood ran down your face from your broken nose. It dripped from your mouth where she'd split your lip. It soaked through your clothes from a dozen cuts and wounds. Your ribs screamed with every breath. Your head pounded. Your vision was blurred.
But you were alive. You'd survived. You'd won. You looked down at Smurf's body.
At the blood. At the broken crown of her hair.
And you felt something shift inside you. Not satisfaction. Not triumph. Just exhaustion.
Just the terrible weight of what you'd done. You'd killed someone. You'd taken another life.
You'd become the thing you'd always feared becoming. But you'd also saved yourself. Saved Lena. Saved whatever future you might still have.
You knelt beside Smurf's body. Leaned down. Your face was inches from hers. Blood dripped from your nose onto her cheek. You looked at her dead eyes. At the woman who'd called herself a queen. Who'd ruled through fear and violence and control. Who'd destroyed everyone she touched.
And you growled. Your voice was hoarse. Raw. Barely human.
“You're the queen of nothing now.”
The words hung in the air. Final. True. Absolute. Smurf didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Would never answer again. You stood up. Looked around your apartment. At the blood. At the broken furniture. At the shattered glass.
You were still standing over Smurf's body when you heard them. Footsteps. Heavy. Multiple. Running up the stairs.
Your heart stopped.
The door exploded inward. “FBI! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
You raised your hands. They were covered in blood. Smurf's blood. Your blood. You couldn't tell anymore. Agents poured into the apartment. Black tactical gear. Rifles raised. Flashlights cutting through the dim light. They swept the room with military precision, clearing corners, checking for threats.
One of them saw Smurf's body. “We've got a body! Female, late fifties, multiple stab wounds, arterial bleeding-she's gone.”
Another agent approached you slowly. His rifle was lowered but ready. His eyes scanned you from head to toe. Taking in the blood. The injuries. The way you were swaying on your feet.
“Ma'am, I need you to put your hands down slowly. Are you injured?”
You tried to answer. Your voice was gone. Your throat was raw from screaming. From choking. From surviving. You nodded.
“Okay. I need you to sit down for me. Can you do that?”
You tried to move. Your legs gave out. You collapsed. The agent caught you before you hit the floor.
“I need a medic! NOW!”
Everything was spinning. The room tilted. Your vision blurred. You could hear voices but they sounded far away. Underwater. Distorted.
“-severe facial trauma-“
“-broken ribs, possible internal bleeding-“
“-defensive wounds on her hands and arms-“
“-the deceased has offensive wounds, looks like the victim fought back-“
Victim.
They called you a victim. Not a suspect. Not a murderer. A victim.
Someone was pressing gauze to your face. You flinched. Pain exploded through your broken nose.
“I know, I know. I'm sorry. Just hold still for me.”
You tried to focus. Tried to see who was talking. A paramedic. Young. Female. Kind eyes.
“What's your name, honey?”
“B-Bambi,” you whispered. Your voice was barely audible. Hoarse. Broken.
“Okay, Bambi. My name's Sasha. I'm going to take care of you, okay? Can you tell me what happened?”
You looked at Smurf's body. At the blood. At the knife on the floor.
“She-“ You coughed. Blood filled your mouth. You spit it out. “She tried to kill me.”
“Okay. Did you know her?” You nodded. “Who was she?”
“My boyfriend's mother.”
Sasha's eyes widened slightly. But she didn't stop working. Didn't stop checking your injuries. Didn't stop trying to save you.
“Alright. We're going to get you to the hospital. You're going to be okay.”
Another agent appeared. Older. Gray hair. Sharp eyes. He knelt beside you.
“Ms. Bambi, I'm Special Agent Morrison. I need to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?”
You nodded.
“Did Janine Cody break into your apartment tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Did she attack you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fight back in self-defense?”
“Yes.”
Agent Morrison nodded. He looked at Sasha. At your injuries. At the blood soaking through your clothes.
“We've been tracking Janine Cody since she escaped FBI custody earlier tonight. We had reason to believe she was coming here. We just-“ He paused. “We didn't get here in time. I'm sorry.”
You stared at him. They knew. They knew she was coming. They could have stopped her.
But they didn't. And now Smurf was dead. And you were the one who'd killed her.
“Am I-“ You coughed again. More blood. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, ma'am. This is clearly self-defense. You're not being charged with anything.”
Relief flooded through you. Then guilt. Because you'd killed someone. You'd taken a life. And you felt relieved.
What did that make you?
Sasha was strapping you onto a gurney now.
“We need to move. She's losing too much blood.”
They lifted you. Carried you out of the apartment. Down the stairs. Into the night. The street was full of vehicles. FBI. Police. Ambulances. Neighbors stood on their porches, watching.
Whispering. Pointing. You closed your eyes. Couldn't look at them. Couldn't face their judgment. Couldn't-
Lena.
Your eyes flew open.
“Wait!” You tried to sit up. Pain exploded through your ribs. You gasped. “My daughter-Lena-she's at school-someone needs to-“
“We'll take care of it,” Agent Morrison said. He was walking beside the gurney. “We'll make sure she's safe. I promise.”
“Don't let her see-“ Your voice broke. “Don't let her see the apartment. Don't let her see the blood. Please.”
“We won't. I give you my word.”
They loaded you into the ambulance. Sasha climbed in beside you. Started an IV. Checked your vitals. The doors slammed shut. The siren wailed. And you were moving. Away from the apartment. Away from Smurf's body. Away from everything. You stared at the ceiling of the ambulance. At the bright lights. At the medical equipment. And you thought about Pope. About the standoff you'd watched on TV.
About the gunfire. About the blood.
Is he really dead?
You wanted to ask. Wanted to know. But you were afraid of the answer. So you said nothing. Just lay there. Bleeding. Broken. Alone.
The hospital was chaos. Doctors. Nurses. Bright lights. Machines beeping. People shouting orders. They cut your clothes off. Examined every inch of you. Took X-rays. CT scans. Blood tests.
You floated through it all in a haze of pain and shock. Someone gave you morphine. The pain dulled. But the fear didn't. The fear that Pope was dead. That Craig was dead. That Deran was dead. That you'd destroyed everything.
That Lena would grow up without any of them. That you were alone. Again. Always alone.
A doctor appeared beside your bed. Young. Tired eyes. “Ms. Bambi, I'm Dr. Patel. I've been overseeing your care. You have three broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a broken nose, severe bruising and lacerations across your face and body, and a mild concussion. You're going to be in a lot of pain for the next few weeks, but you're going to recover.”
You nodded. Tried to speak. Your throat was too raw. Dr. Patel poured you a cup of water. Helped you drink. The water burned going down. But it helped.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“There's something else,” Dr. Patel said. Her voice was gentle. Careful. The kind of voice doctors used when they had news. Good or bad, you couldn't tell.
Your heart started racing. “What?”
“We always run precautionary tests incase of restrictions. Your blood work came back. You're pregnant.”
The world stopped. Everything went silent. Still. Frozen.
Pregnant. You were pregnant. With Pope's baby.
The man who'd left you. The man who might be dead. The man who'd walked away to protect you and now you were carrying his child.
“How-“ Your voice cracked. “How far along?”
“About six weeks. Very early. But-“ Dr. Patel paused. “Ms. Bambi, given the severity of your injuries, if you hadn't fought back tonight, if you hadn't survived-both you and the baby would have died.”
Both of us. We both would have died.
You looked down at your stomach. At the hospital gown covering it. At the place where a life was growing. Pope's baby. Your baby. A life you'd created together.
A life you'd saved tonight without even knowing it existed. Tears started falling. You couldn't stop them. Didn't try. Just lay there and cried. For everything you'd lost.
For everything you'd survived. For the tiny life inside you that deserved better than this.
Better than a mother covered in blood. Better than a father who might be dead. Better than a family torn apart by violence and fear.
“I'm sorry,” you sobbed. “I'm so sorry.”
Dr. Patel squeezed your hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You survived. You protected yourself. You protected your baby. That's what matters.”
But it didn't feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough. You'd killed someone. You'd taken a life while creating one.
What did that make you?
What kind of mother did that make you?
“Does anyone know?” you whispered. “About the baby?”
“Just the medical team. We haven't told anyone else. That's your decision.”
You nodded. Closed your eyes. Tried to process. Tried to understand. Tried to figure out what came next. But you couldn't.
Your mind was too fractured. Too broken. Too overwhelmed. All you could think about was Pope. About whether he was alive. About whether he'd ever know. About whether he'd care.
He left you. He walked away. He chose his mother over you. But he'd also loved you. He'd also held you. He'd also promised forever.
And now you were carrying his child. A child he might never meet. A child who might grow up without a father. Just like Lena had.
But what choice did you have? Pope was gone. Maybe dead. Maybe alive but never coming back. Either way, you were alone.
You and Lena. And now this baby. This tiny, fragile life that deserved so much more than you could give. You pressed your hand to your stomach. Felt nothing. Too early.
But you knew it was there. Growing. Waiting. Trusting you to keep it safe.
“I will,” you whispered. “I promise. I'll keep you safe.”
Even if it killed you. Even if you had to do it alone. Even if Pope never came back.
You'd keep this baby safe. You'd give it the life it deserved. You'd be enough. Somehow.
They moved you to a private room. Stitched your cuts. Set your broken nose. Wrapped your ribs. Gave you more morphine. You drifted in and out of consciousness.
Dreaming. Nightmares. Pope's face. Smurf's dead eyes. Blood. So much blood. You woke to voices. Quiet. Careful. Someone was in the room.
You opened your eyes. Agent Morrison was standing by the door. Talking to a woman. Older. Professional. Carrying a clipboard.
“stable now. The doctors say she'll make a full recovery.”
“And the child? Lena?”
“She's with Child Protective Services. We picked her up from school. Told her there was an emergency. She doesn't know the details yet.”
“Does she know about her mother's condition?”
“Not yet. We wanted to wait until Ms. Bambi was conscious.”
The woman nodded. Wrote something on her clipboard. “I'll need to do an assessment. Make sure the home environment is safe before we can release Lena back into her care.”
You tried to sit up. Pain exploded through your body. You gasped. Both Agent Morrison and the woman turned.
“Ms. Bambi,” the woman said. She approached your bed. “I'm Margaret. I'm a social worker with Child Protective Services. I'm here to-“
“You can't take her,” you interrupted. Your voice was hoarse. Desperate. “Please. You can't take Lena. She's-she's all I have. Please.”
Margaret's expression softened. “I'm not here to take her away. I'm here to make sure she's safe. That's all.”
“She is safe. With me. I would never-I would die before I let anything happen to her.”
“I believe you. But given what happened tonight, I need to do my due diligence. I need to make sure you're capable of caring for her while you recover.”
You wanted to argue. Wanted to fight. But you were so tired. So broken. And she was right. How could you take care of Lena like this? You could barely move. Could barely breathe. Could barely function.
“Where is she?” you whispered.
“She's in the waiting room. With a foster care coordinator. She's safe. She's been asking about you.”
Fresh tears fell. “Can I see her?”
Margaret looked at Agent Morrison. He nodded. “I think that would be good for both of you,” Margaret said. “But I need to prepare you-she's scared. She knows something bad happened. She saw the police cars. The ambulances. She's been crying.”
Your heart shattered. Lena. My baby.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me see her.”
Margaret nodded. “I'll go get her.” She left.
Agent Morrison stayed. He pulled a chair up beside your bed. Sat down.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
He smiled slightly. “That's about what it looks like.”
You tried to smile back. Couldn't. “Have you-“ You swallowed. “Have you heard anything? About the other people at the house?”
Agent Morrison's expression shifted. Became carefully neutral. “I can't discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Please. I just need to know if they're alive.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Three men fled the scene, we’re not sure if they are alive.”
“What are you going to do when you find them?”
“I can't tell you that.”
“Please.”
“I'm sorry.”
You closed your eyes. You didn't know. Couldn't know. And the not knowing was worse than anything.
The door opened. You looked up. Margaret was there. And beside her Lena. Your baby. Your little girl.
She looked so small. So scared. Her eyes were red from crying. Her hair was messy.
She was wearing the same clothes she'd worn to school that morning, a pink dress with flowers, white tights, her favorite sneakers.
She looked like a child. Like the innocent, beautiful child she was. And you'd brought violence into her life. Again.
“Mama?” she whispered.
The word hit you like a physical blow. She'd never called you that before. Never.
It had always been Miss Bambi or Bambi or sometimes just you.
Never Mama.
Never anything that claimed you as hers. Until now.
“Hi, sweetheart,” you whispered. Your voice was shaking. Tears were falling. You couldn't stop them.
Lena took a tentative step forward. Then another. Then she was running. Margaret tried to stop her.
“Lena, careful-“
But Lena didn't listen. She ran to your bed. Climbed up. Threw her arms around you. Pain exploded through your broken ribs. You gasped. But you didn't push her away. Couldn't push her away. Just held her.
As tight as you could. As carefully as you could. And let her cry.
“I was so scared,” she sobbed into your shoulder. “The police came and they said there was an emergency and they took me to this place and there were other kids and I didn't know where you were and I thought-I thought-“
“Shh. It's okay. I'm here. I'm okay.”
“You're hurt.”
“I know. But I'm going to be fine.”
“What happened?”
You looked at Margaret. She was watching carefully. Assessing. Judging. Deciding if you were fit to be a mother.
You looked back at Lena. At her tear-streaked face. At her wide, terrified eyes. At the little girl who'd already lost so much.
“Someone tried to hurt me,” you said quietly. “But I'm okay now. The doctors are taking care of me.”
“Who tried to hurt you?”
You hesitated. “Someone bad,” you said. “But they can't hurt us anymore.”
Lena pulled back. Looked at your face. At the bruises. At the cuts. At the bandages. Her little hand reached up. Touched your cheek gently. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“I'm sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby.”
“I should have been there. I should have protected you like Uncle Pope would’ve.”
Your heart broke. “Lena, listen to me.” You took her face in your hands. Looked into her eyes. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. You are a child. It's my job to protect you. Not the other way around. Do you understand?”
She nodded. But you could see she didn't believe you. She'd been protecting herself for so long. Been surviving on her own. Been the adult when the adults around her failed.
And now she thought she'd failed you.
“I love you,” you whispered. “So much. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I am so, so grateful that you're safe.”
“I love you too.” She said it quietly. Almost shyly. Like she wasn't sure if she was allowed.
“Come here.” You pulled her close again. Ignored the pain. Ignored everything except the feeling of her in your arms. Safe. Alive. Yours.
Margaret cleared her throat. “I'm going to step outside for a moment. Give you two some privacy.”
She left. Agent Morrison followed. The door closed. And it was just you and Lena. You and your daughter. Because that's what she was. Your daughter. Not legally. Not yet. But in every way that mattered.
“Lena,” you said softly. “I need to tell you something.”
She pulled back. Looked at you. Waiting.
“I'm going to be in the hospital for a few days. While I heal. And you're going to have to stay with-“ You paused. “With someone else. Just for a little while.”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. Panicked. “No, I want to stay with you.”
“I know, baby. But I can't take care of you right now. I can barely move. And you need someone who can-“
“I don't care. I'll take care of myself. I'm good at it. I can cook and clean and I won't be any trouble. Please don't send me away.”
“I'm not sending you away.”
“Yes you are. Everyone always sends me away.”
“Lena-“
“My mom sent me away. My dad sent me away. And now you're sending me away too.”
“No.” You grabbed her hands. Held them tight. “I am not sending you away. I am never sending you away. Do you hear me? Never. You are mine. You are my daughter. And I am your-“
You stopped. Because you didn't know what you were. Guardian. Caretaker. Friend. But not mother. You'd never claimed that title. Never felt like you deserved it.
But Lena was looking at you with those big, scared eyes. And you realized she needed to hear it. Needed to know. Needed to understand that she wasn't alone.
“I'm your mama,” you whispered.
Lena's eyes widened. “What?”
“I'm your mama. If you want me to be. If you'll have me.”
Tears started falling down her cheeks. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it. I love you, Lena. I love you so much. And I know I'm not perfect. I know I'm broken and scared and I don't always know what I'm doing. But I promise you-I will never abandon you. I will never send you away. I will fight for you. I will protect you. I will be here. Always.”
Lena threw her arms around you again. Buried her face in your neck. And sobbed.”Mama,” she whispered.
The word was muffled. Broken. Beautiful. “Mama, I was so scared.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“I thought you were going to die.”
“I'm not going to die. I promise.”
“You can't promise that.”
She was right. You couldn't. But you said it anyway. Because she needed to hear it. Because you needed to believe it.
“I'm not going to die,” you repeated. “I'm going to get better. And then I'm going to come home. And we're going to be a family. You and me. And-“
You stopped. And the baby. You hadn't told her yet. Didn't know how. Didn't know if you should. But she deserved to know.
“And someone else,” you said quietly.
Lena pulled back. Looked at you. Confused.
“Who?”
You took a deep breath. Placed your hand on your stomach. “I'm pregnant, Lena. You're going to be a big sister.”
Her eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Really.”
“When?”
“In about seven months.”
“Is it-“ She hesitated. “Is it Uncle Pope's?”
Your heart clenched. Uncle Pope.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Lena was quiet for a long moment. Processing. Thinking. Then she looked up at you. “Does he know?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I don't know. I don't even know if he's-“
You couldn't finish. Couldn't say it. Lena seemed to understand. She placed her small hand on your stomach. Right where yours was.
“It's okay,” she said softly. “Even if Uncle Pope isn't here, the baby will have us. We'll take care of it. Right, Mama?”
Mama.
She said it again. So easily. So naturally. Like she'd been waiting her whole life to say it. And maybe she had.
“Right,” you whispered. “We'll take care of it.”
“And we'll be a family.”
“We'll be a family.”
Lena smiled. It was small. Fragile. But real.
“I love you, Mama.”
The word hit you again. Harder this time. Because it was real now. She'd claimed you. And you'd claimed her.
And nothing, not Smurf, not Pope, not the FBI, not anything, could take that away.
“I love you too, baby,” you whispered.
You pulled her close. Held her. And for the first time since Pope had left, you felt something other than grief.
You felt hope. Because you weren't alone. You had Lena. You had this baby growing inside you. You had a future. It wasn't the future you'd planned. It wasn't the future you'd wanted. But it was yours.
And you were going to fight for it. For them. For yourself. No matter what came next.
Lena settled against you carefully. Her head on your shoulder. Her hand still on your stomach. Protecting her sibling.
Already being the big sister. “Mama?” she whispered.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are you scared?”
You thought about lying. About telling her everything was fine. About being strong. But she deserved the truth.
“Yeah,” you whispered back. “I'm scared.”
“Me too.”
“But we're going to be okay.”
“Promise?”
You kissed the top of her head. “Promise.”
And even though you didn't know if it was true, even though everything was broken and uncertain and terrifying, you meant it.
Because you had to. Because she needed you to. Because you were her mama now. And that meant being brave even when you weren't. That meant promising things you couldn't guarantee.
That meant fighting for a future you couldn't see. Lena's breathing slowed. Deepened. She was falling asleep. Exhausted from fear and tears and relief.
You held her. Watched her. This little girl who'd chosen you. Who'd called you Mama. Who'd given you a reason to keep going.
And you thought about Pope. About whether he was alive. About whether he'd ever know about this baby.
About whether he'd care. But then you looked at Lena. At her peaceful face. At the trust she'd placed in you. And you realized something. It didn't matter. Pope or no Pope.
Alive or dead. Here or gone. You had everything you needed right here.
You had Lena. You had this baby. You had yourself. And that was enough. It had to be enough.
“Mama,” Lena murmured in her sleep. The word was soft. Sleepy. Perfect.
You closed your eyes. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself believe it. You were a mother. Not just a guardian. Not just a caretaker.
A mother.
“I've got you, baby,” you whispered. “Mama's got you.”
And for the first time in days, you let yourself rest.
The hospital smelled like death and bleach. Pope stood in the doorway of the emergency room, Craig's blood still wet on his hands, and tried to remember how to breathe. The building was small. One story. Crumbling stucco walls painted a faded yellow that might have been cheerful once but now just looked diseased. The sign above the entrance was missing half its letters. HOSPITAL GENERAL SAN- something. Pope hadn't bothered to read the rest.
Deran was already inside, shouting in broken Spanish at a nurse who looked about sixteen years old.
“Mi hermano-my brother-he's been shot. Disparado. In the chest. El pecho. He needs a doctor. Un médico. NOW.”
The nurse's eyes were wide with fear. She kept looking at Craig. At the blood soaking through the towels Deran had pressed against his chest. At the way Craig's head lolled to the side, unconscious, his skin gray and waxy. At the way his breathing came in shallow, rattling gasps.
“Un momento,” she stammered. “Por favor, espere-“
“We don't have a fucking moment!” Deran roared. “He's dying! Do you understand? Muriendo!"
Pope moved forward. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He grabbed Deran's shoulder. “Let her do her job.”
Deran spun on him. “Her job? Look at this place, Pope! Look at it! This isn't a hospital. It's a fucking butcher shop. Craig's going to die here.”
“He's going to die if we keep standing here arguing.”
The nurse disappeared through a set of double doors. Thirty seconds later, two men in stained scrubs appeared with a gurney. They didn't ask questions. Just lifted Craig onto the gurney and wheeled him away.
Deran tried to follow.
One of the men held up a hand. “No. Espere aquí.”
“Like hell-“
Pope grabbed Deran's arm. “Let them work.”
“Pope-
“Let. Them. Work.”
Deran's jaw clenched. But he stayed. The double doors swung shut. And Craig was gone.
The waiting room was a nightmare. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing like dying insects. Half of them were out completely, leaving the room in a sickly yellow-green glow. The walls were the color of old teeth. Water stains bloomed across the ceiling like mold. The floor was cracked linoleum, sticky in places, stained in others.
There were six plastic chairs bolted to the wall. Three of them were broken. Pope sat in one of the intact ones.
Deran paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. His boots squeaking on the linoleum. His hands opening and closing into fists.
“He's going to be okay,” Deran said. “Right? He's going to be okay.”
Pope didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because he didn't know. Craig had been shot in the chest. Upper left side. Close to the heart. Maybe through the lung.
Pope had seen the entry wound when they'd stripped Craig's shirt off in the truck. Bleeding steadily but not gushing. That was good, right? If it wasn't gushing, that meant it hadn't hit an artery. But Craig had been unconscious for the last hour.
His breathing had gotten worse. Shallower. Wetter. Like he was drowning from the inside. And this hospital-
Pope looked around. At the peeling paint. At the ancient equipment visible through the open door of an exam room.
At the rust stains on the sink. At the smell. God, the smell. Antiseptic trying to cover decay. Bleach trying to mask blood. Desperation trying to hide death. This wasn't a hospital.
Deran was right. This was a place people came to die.
“Pope.”
He looked up. Deran had stopped pacing. He was standing in front of Pope, his face pale, his eyes red.
“Say something. Please. Just-say something.”
Pope opened his mouth. Closed it. What was there to say? That Craig might die?
That they'd dragged him across the border with a bullet in his chest because they couldn't risk an American hospital?
That the FBI was probably looking for them right now?
That Smurf was-
Pope's hands clenched. Smurf. This was her fault. All of it.
“I need to call Bambi,” Pope said.
Deran blinked. “What?”
“I need to know if she's okay.” The words came out raw. Desperate. Deran stared at him.
“You think something happened to her?”
“I don't know. I haven't heard from her. Or J. Or anyone. Not since-“ Pope couldn't finish.
Since the raid. Since the FBI had surrounded the house. Since Craig had been shot. Since they'd dragged him out the back door and thrown him in Deran's truck and driven.
Just driven. South. Away. Toward the border. Toward Mexico. Toward this shithole hospital where Craig was maybe dying and Pope was sitting in a broken plastic chair covered in his brother's blood.
“She's fine,” Deran said. “She wasn't even there. She's in her apartment with Lena. She's safe.”
“You don't know that.”
“Pope-“
“You don't fucking know that!” Pope was on his feet now. He couldn't say it. Couldn't voice the fear that had been clawing at his chest since they'd crossed the border.
That Smurf had gone after you. That she'd finished what she'd started.
That while Pope was running, while he was saving Craig, while he was choosing his brother over everything else-you had been alone.
Unprotected. Vulnerable.
“Call her,” Deran said quietly.
Pope pulled out his phone. No service. Of course. They were in the middle of nowhere Mexico in a hospital that probably didn't have running water half the time.
“There's a payphone,” Deran said, pointing to a corner of the waiting room. Pope walked over.
The phone was ancient. Covered in grime. The receiver was cracked. But when he picked it up, he heard a dial tone. He dialed your number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Voicemail.
“Hi, you've reached Bambi. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I'll call you back!”
Your voice. Bright. Happy. Alive. The beep sounded.
Pope opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What was he supposed to say?
I'm in Mexico. Craig's been shot. I don't know if he's going to make it. I don't know if you're okay. I don't know if Smurf found you. I don't know anything except that I left you and now I can't reach you and I'm terrified that you're hurt or worse and it's my fault because I wasn't there to protect you.
He hung up. Tried J's number. Straight to voicemail. Tried you again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
“Pope.”
He turned. Deran was standing there, his expression careful. “She's probably just at work. Or with Lena. She's fine.”
“Then why isn't she answering?”
“Because she doesn't know what happened yet. She doesn't know we're-“ Deran gestured vaguely. “She thinks we're still in California. She thinks everything's fine.”
Pope wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that you were safe.
That you were at work. That you were picking Lena up from school. That you were living her life, unaware that everything had gone to hell. But he couldn't. Because he knew Smurf. He knew what she was capable of.
And he knew that if Smurf had escaped, If she was still out there she would go after you.
She would finish it. She would take away the one thing Pope loved most. Just to prove she could. The double doors burst open.
One of the doctors appeared. Young. Maybe thirty. Exhausted. His scrubs were covered in blood. Craig's blood.
“Familia de Craig Cody?”
Pope and Deran rushed over.
“Is he alive?” Deran demanded. “Is my brother alive?”
The doctor's English was heavily accented but clear. “He is alive. But he is very critical. The bullet, it punctured his lung. There is much bleeding. We have stabilized him for now, but-“ He paused. “He needs surgery. Real surgery. In a real hospital. We do not have the equipment here. We do not have the blood. We are doing what we can, but-“
“But what?” Pope's voice was flat.
The doctor met his eyes. “But I do not know if he will survive the night.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Deran made a sound. Something between a sob and a growl.
“Can we see him?” Pope asked.
The doctor hesitated. Then nodded. “Sí. But only for a moment. He is unconscious. He cannot hear you.”
They followed him through the double doors. Into a hallway that smelled like copper and rot. Past exam rooms with open doors showing bloodstained gurneys and broken equipment. Past a supply closet with empty shelves. Past a bathroom with no door. Into a room at the end of the hall.
Craig was on a bed. Tubes everywhere. An oxygen mask over his face. An IV in his arm.
Bandages wrapped around his chest, already soaked through with blood. His skin was gray. His lips were blue. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths.
He looked dead. He looked like he was already gone.
Deran moved to his side. Grabbed his hand. “Craig. Hey. It's me. It's Deran. You're going to be okay, man. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”
Craig didn't respond. Didn't move. Didn't even twitch. Pope stood in the doorway. Watching. Feeling nothing. No. That wasn't true. He felt everything. Rage. Grief. Guilt. Terror. But it was all so big, so overwhelming, that it felt like nothing.
Like he was hollow. Like he'd been scooped out and filled with static.
“Pope,” Deran said. His voice was shaking. “Come here. Talk to him.”
Pope didn't move.
“Pope.”
“He can't hear me.”
“You don't know that.”
“The doctor said-“
“I don't give a fuck what the doctor said. Talk to him.” Pope forced himself to move.
One step. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed. Looking down at his brother. At Craig.
Dying in a shithole hospital in Mexico because Pope hadn't been fast enough. Hadn't been smart enough. Hadn't been strong enough to protect him.
“I'm sorry,” Pope whispered.
Craig's chest rose. Fell. Rose. Fell. The heart monitor beeped.
Steady. Weak. But steady.
“I'm sorry,” Pope said again.
And then the monitor flatlined. The sound was piercing. Endless. A single, high-pitched tone that cut through everything.
Deran screamed. “CRAIG!”
The doctor shoved past Pope, yelling in Spanish. Two nurses appeared. They pushed Deran out of the way. Started compressions. Pope watched. Frozen. Numb. As they worked. As they tried to bring Craig back. As the monitor kept screaming.
“Cargando!”
The defibrillator. They pressed the paddles to Craig's chest. His body jerked. The monitor screamed.
“Otra vez!”
Again. Craig's body jerked. The monitor screamed.
“Otra vez!”
Again. And then a beep. Weak. Irregular.
But a beep. The monitor showed a heartbeat. Faint. Erratic. But there.
The doctor sagged. “Dios mío.”
The nurses kept working. Adjusting IVs. Checking vitals. Monitoring the machines.
Deran was on his knees. Sobbing. Pope just stood there. Watching Craig's chest rise and fall. Watching the monitor beep. Watching his brother cling to life by a thread.
And he thought about you. About whether you were okay. About whether you were hurt. About whether you were lying in a hospital somewhere just like this.
Or worse.
About whether you were-
No. He couldn't think it. Couldn't let himself go there. You were fine.
You had to be fine.
Because if you weren’t-If something had happened to you-If Smurf had-
Pope turned and walked out of the room. Down the hallway. Through the double doors. Into the waiting room.
He kept walking. Out the front entrance. Into the parking lot. The sun was setting. The sky was orange and purple and beautiful.
Pope leaned against his truck. Pulled out his phone. Still no service. He wanted to scream. Wanted to put his fist through something. Wanted to get in the truck and drive back to California and find you and make sure you were okay.
But he couldn't.
Because Craig was dying. Because Deran needed him. Because if he left now, if he abandoned his brother-He'd never forgive himself.
Deran appeared beside him. His face was red. His eyes were swollen. “He's stable,” Deran said. “For now.” Pope nodded. “The doctor says if he makes it through the night, he might have a chance.”
“Okay.”
“Pope-“
“I have to go back.”
Deran stared at him. “What?”
“To California. I have to go back. I have to see her.”
“Are you insane? The FBI is looking for us. If you go back-“
“I don't care.”
“You'll get arrested.”
“I don't care.”
“Pope-“
“I have to know if she's okay!” Pope's voice cracked. “I have to know if she's alive. I can't-I can't just sit here and wait and wonder. I can't do it, Deran. I can't.”
Deran was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. “When?”
“Tonight. As soon as it's dark.”
“And if Craig-“
“You'll be here. You'll take care of him.”
“Pope-“
“I'm going, Deran. With or without your permission. I'm going.”
Deran looked at him. Really looked at him. At the blood on his hands. At the desperation in his eyes. At the way he was barely holding it together.
“Okay,” Deran said quietly. “Okay. Go.”
Pope nodded. Turned toward the truck.
“Pope.” He looked back. “Be careful.”
Pope didn't answer. Just got in the truck. Started the engine. And drove.
Pope pulled onto your street at 7:23 AM. The sun was fully up now. Bright. Harsh. Unforgiving. He slowed the truck. Scanned the street. Looking for-His heart stopped.
FBI vehicles. Three of them. Black SUVs with government plates. Parked in front of your apartment complex.
Pope pulled over. Parked half a block away. Killed the engine. His hands were shaking.
Couldn't make sense of it. Why would the FBI be at your apartment?
You weren’t involved. You didn't know anything. You were innocent.
Pope got out of the truck. Started walking. Slowly. Carefully. Trying to look casual. Just a guy out for a morning walk. Not a wanted fugitive.
Not a man whose brother was dying in Mexico. Not a man whose entire world was collapsing. He got closer. Saw the officers. Four of them. Standing near the entrance.
Talking. Radios crackling. One of them was on the phone.
Pope stopped. Ducked behind a parked car. Watched. The apartment complex door opened. Two more officers emerged.
And between them-Pope's vision tunneled.
A body bag. Black. Zipped. Being carried on a stretcher.
No. No no no no no.
Pope's legs gave out. He caught himself on the car. Forced himself to stay upright. To keep watching. To see.
The officers loaded the body bag into a coroner's van. Closed the doors. One of them made a note on a clipboard.
Another spoke into his radio. “-body recovered from apartment 2B. Female. Preliminary assessment suggests homicide. Multiple stab wounds. Victim has been identified as-“
The radio crackled. Pope couldn't hear the rest. Didn't need to.
While Pope was running. While he was saving Craig. While he was choosing his family over her. Smurf had gone to the apartment. Had broken in. Had stabbed you. Had killed you.
And Pope hadn't been there. Hadn't protected you. Hadn't saved you.
He'd left you. And you’d died alone.
The coroner's van pulled away. Pope watched it go. Watched it carry your body.
Watched it take you away from him. Forever.
Something inside him broke. Not cracked. Not fractured. Broke. Completely. Irreparably. He'd spent his whole life trying to be good. Trying to protect people. Trying to do the right thing. And it had all been for nothing.
Baz was dead. Craig was dying. You were dead. Lena was-
Pope's head snapped up. Where's Lena?
If you were dead, If Smurf had killed you-
Where was Lena? Was she-Had Smurf-
Pope couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process. He pulled out his phone.
Tried to call Deran. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped it. It clattered on the pavement. He picked it up. Tried again.
It rang.
lPope? Did you find her? Is she-“
“She's dead.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Bambi's dead. The FBI is at her apartment. They just-they just took her body away. She's dead, Deran. She's fucking dead.”
“Pope-“
“Smurf killed her. While we were running. While we were-she went to the apartment and she killed her and I wasn't there. I wasn't fucking there.”
“Pope, listen to me-“
“I have to find Lena. I have to-if Smurf hurt her-if she-“
“Pope, stop. Just stop. You need to get out of there. If the FBI sees you-“
“I don't care.”
“Pope-“
“I don't fucking care!” Pope was shouting now. “Don't you get it? She's dead! Bambi's dead! And it's my fault! I left her! I chose you and Craig over her and now she's dead!”
“That's not-“
“It is! It is my fault! I should have stayed! I should have protected her! I should have” His voice broke. He couldn't finish. Couldn't say anything else. Just stood there.
Phone pressed to his ear. Watching the FBI officers. Watching them secure the scene.
Watching them treat your apartment like a crime scene. Because that's what it was. A crime scene. A murder scene.
The place where the woman he loved had died.
“Pope,” Deran said quietly. “You need to leave. Right now. Before they see you.”
“I need to find J.”
“What?”
“J. I need to find him. This is his fault. His plan. His-“
“Pope, J didn't kill Bambi. Smurf did.”
“J's plan got Smurf out. J's plan put her on the street. J's plan-“ Pope stopped. Because he realized something. “I'm going to kill him,” Pope said.
His voice was flat. Empty. Dead.
“Pope-“
“I'm going to find him. And I'm going to kill him.”
“Pope, don't-“ Pope hung up. Turned off his phone. And started walking. Away from the apartment. Away from the FBI. Away from your body.
Toward He didn't know where. Didn't care. All he knew was that J had destroyed everything. And Pope was going to make him pay. He was going to find him. He was going to look him in the eye. And he was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. The way J deserved.
The way anyone who hurt you deserved. Pope kept walking. The sun was bright. The sky was blue. The world was beautiful. And Pope wanted to burn it all down. For you.
summary: You always imagined forever would be enough. You never considered forever might end six feet underground. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: DD:DNE, mental illness, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, self harm, dark, mental torment, nightmares, dissociation, derealization, pope is soooo in love with bambi, soft/sad!pope, self hatred, uhhh water boarding? idk just incase, grieving, reader struggles with the idea of impermanence, abandonment, popes short fuse, violence, fighting, cops, guns, cliffhanger…. word count: 6.9k amalia’s love note: PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING!!! you guys are just not ready for the next parts. We’re in the home stretch of this story and it has truly been a pleasure writing this for you all. brb while I crawl into my writing hole and finish the next part! Also pls listen to time, you & me by sienna spiro, her album is literally perfection but when i heard that song i had already written this and it was literally so perfect for them. This was originally called eternal sunshine because i liked the darkness behind the idea of wishing you could erase someone from your mind. so you’ll see hints of that throughout this too. Love you all!! PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, washing everything in warm gold. He stood in the hallway, listening. Lena's laugh drifted from the kitchen. High. Carefree. Real.
He followed the sound.
She sat at the kitchen island with a coloring book spread out in front of her, legs swinging beneath the stool. She looked up the second she heard him.
“Daddy!”
She abandoned the crayons immediately and launched into his arms. Pope caught her, laughing. Actually laughing.
“You were sleeping forever,” she said, wrapping herself around his neck.
“I don't think forever.”
“It felt like forever.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I'm sorry.”
“You almost missed breakfast.”
“I'll survive.”
She leaned back to study him. “Mama said you'd say that.”
His heart stopped.
Mama.
He looked toward the stove.
You stood there barefoot in one of his sweatshirts, hair messy, one hand resting absentmindedly on the gentle curve of your stomach while the other flipped pancakes.
You smiled at him. “Morning.”
Pope couldn't answer. He just stared. Your stomach. Round enough now that there was no hiding it. That wasn’t there yesterday.
You caught him looking and laughed softly. “They're kicking again.”
He crossed the kitchen without thinking, Lena still hanging from one arm. When he reached you, his free hand found your stomach instinctively. Carefully. Like he was touching something sacred.
Almost immediately, something pushed back. Pope's eyes widened.
“There.” You smiled. “Told you.” He looked completely fascinated. “They're saying good morning.”
“They?”
You grinned. “The doctor said twins, don’t you remember? Two girls.”
Pope blinked. “Two girls.”
You nodded. “Two little girls.”
He looked back down at your stomach, then up at you. His expression softened into something you'd only ever seen when he looked at Lena.
Pure love. Pure wonder.
He leaned down and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the side of your head.
You laughed. “Andy.”
“Hm?”
“I'm trying to cook.”
“I know.”
Another kiss. Everything was perfect. Everything was-
The light shifted. Just slightly. The warm gold turning cooler. Sharper. Pope blinked. The kitchen was the same. The table was the same. But something felt wrong.
You were still smiling at him, but the smile looked strained now. Forced.
“Andy?” you said. But your voice sounded distant. Hollow.
He tried to answer but no sound came out. He looked down at Lena in his arms. She was laughing, but the sound was wrong. Too high. Too far away. Like she was laughing from the other end of a tunnel.
Pope tried to move toward you but his feet wouldn't cooperate.
He was stuck. Frozen. The light continued to shift, warm gold bleeding into harsh gray.
Cold. You looked directly at him. The smile was gone now.
“You left us,” you said. But the voice wasn't yours. It was Lena's. Small. Broken. Pope tried to speak.
Tried to say no, I'm right here, I'm not leaving-
But nothing came out. He looked down at your stomach. The curve was gone. Flat. Empty.
“No,” he tried to say. Still nothing.
Lena reached for him from across the kitchen, but she couldn't cross to where he was. Not in his arms anymore. There was something between them now. An invisible wall. She pressed her small hands against it. “Daddy?” Her voice cracked. “Daddy, where are you going?”
Pope realized with sudden, sickening clarity that he wasn't in the kitchen anymore.
He was watching it. From outside. Through glass. Through something he couldn't break.
You stood at the stove, one hand pressed to your empty stomach, tears streaming down your face. “You promised,” you whispered.
The apartment went dark. The warmth bled out of everything. Lena's small hands slid down the invisible barrier between them.
“Daddy-“
Pope jolted awake. His truck. Dark. Cold. The engine was off. The keys were still in the ignition. He was parked three blocks from the apartment, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles had gone white. His heart was pounding. His face was wet. He touched his cheek. Tears. He looked back toward the apartment building.
The lights were still on in your window. You were up there right now. Probably getting Lena ready for bed. Probably wondering where he was. Probably still believing he was coming back.
Pope closed his eyes. The dream was still there. The kitchen. The babies kicking.
Lena calling him Daddy.
Your smile.
The life he'd just destroyed. The nightmare wasn't the dark apartment or the invisible wall or Lena's voice breaking as she reached for him. The nightmare was this. Sitting in his truck three blocks away.
Knowing he'd chosen this. Knowing he'd walked away from the only thing that had ever made him feel human.
He'd had to look you in the eye and destroy everything. And you'd never know it was to save you.
Pope started the engine. He didn't drive back to the apartment. He drove away. Because the dream was right. He had left you.
Pope was waiting to die. He didn't say it out loud. Didn't write a note. Didn't make some dramatic announcement to Deran or Craig or anyone who might try to stop him. He just knew.
The way you know when a bone is broken. The way you know when something inside you has been severed and can't be repaired. He had nothing without you. He'd never wanted anything the way he wanted you.
Not freedom. Not peace. Not absolution for the things he'd done.
Not even Smurf's approval, though he'd spent forty-three years chasing it like a dog chasing headlights.
Just you. Your laugh. Your hands in his hair.
The way you looked at him like he was something other than broken. And he'd destroyed it. Not because he wanted to.
Because Smurf had given him no choice. Because loving you meant watching you die. Because the only way to save you was to become the thing you'd hate most: the man who abandoned you.
Pope sat in the motel room Deran had paid for, some shitty place off the PCH with water-stained ceilings and a neon sign that buzzed all night, and stared at the wall.
He'd been staring for three hours. Maybe four. Time didn't work right anymore. It stretched and contracted like something living.
Sometimes he'd blink and realize the sun had set. Sometimes he'd close his eyes for what felt like seconds and open them to find hours had passed.
His phone sat on the nightstand. Seventeen missed calls from Deran. Four from Craig. None from you.
He knew you thought he was coming back. You thought he'd just needed space after the photos, after the flowers, after the reality of what Smurf could do had crashed into your perfect little life.
You thought he loved you enough to stay. You were wrong. He loved you enough to leave.
Pope's hands started shaking. He looked down at them like they belonged to someone else. His right hand was bruised across the knuckles. Purple. Swollen.
He didn't remember hitting anything. But he must have. There was a hole in the drywall beside the bathroom door that hadn't been there this morning.
Or maybe it had. Maybe he'd just forgotten. His phone buzzed. Deran again. Pope let it ring. He couldn't talk to Deran. Couldn't explain.
Couldn't say Smurf threatened to kill her so I left because then Deran would want to fix it, would want to fight Smurf, would want to protect you the way Pope should've been able to protect you but couldn't. And Pope couldn't let Deran get involved.
Couldn't let him become another target. Couldn't risk Smurf deciding that Deran cared too much about you and needed to be taught a lesson too.
So Pope said nothing. Did nothing. Just sat in the motel room and waited for his body to catch up with what his mind already knew:
He was already dead. He just hadn't stopped breathing yet.
The sun came up. Pope didn't notice. He was standing in the shower with the water running cold, his forehead pressed against the tile, his eyes closed. He didn't remember getting in. Didn't remember taking off his clothes. One second he'd been sitting on the bed.
The next he was here. The water beat against his shoulders. Icy. Relentless. He didn't move. His mind was somewhere else.
In the apartment. In the kitchen where you'd told him about Philadelphia. In Lena's room where he'd read her Where the Wild Things Are four nights in a row because she'd insisted it was her favorite. In your bed where you'd curled against him and whispered I love you like it was a secret. Pope's chest tightened.
He couldn't breathe. The water kept falling. He opened his mouth and let it fill his throat. Choking. Drowning. He jerked back, coughing, gasping, his hands braced against the tile.
His vision blurred. Not from the water. From something else. He turned off the shower. Stood there dripping. Shaking. His reflection stared back at him from the fogged mirror.
Hollow eyes. Wet hair plastered to his skull. A stranger. He looked away.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
Deran showed up at noon. Pope heard the knock but didn't answer.
“Pope. Open the door.” Silence. “I know you're in there. Your truck's outside.”
Pope sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. The bruises had darkened.
“I'm coming in.” The lock clicked. Deran must've gotten a key from the front desk. The door swung open. Deran stood in the doorway, backlit by the California sun, holding a bag from the taco place you liked.
He looked at Pope. His expression shifted. Concern. Fear. Something else Pope couldn't name. “Jesus Christ.”
Pope didn't respond. Deran stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He set the bag on the small table. “When's the last time you ate?”
Pope didn't know. Yesterday? The day before?
“Pope.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. You look like shit.”
Pope's jaw tightened. “I'm fine.”
Deran crouched in front of him, forcing eye contact. “Talk to me. What happened? Did you and Bambi fight?”
Pope's hands curled into fists. “No.”
“Then what-“
“I left.”
Deran blinked. “What?”
“I left her.”
“Why?”
Pope didn't answer.
Deran's face hardened. “Pope. Why the fuck would you leave her? You love her. Lena loves you. You were happy-“
“I can't talk about this.”
“Bullshit. You're gonna talk about it because you're scaring the shit out of me right now.”
Pope stood abruptly. Deran stumbled back. “I said I can't talk about it.” His voice came out too loud. Too sharp. Deran stared at him.
Pope turned away, his hands shaking again. “You need to go.”
“I'm not leaving you like this.”
“Deran-“
“No. I'm not doing it. You're my brother and something is seriously fucking wrong and I'm not walking out that door until you tell me what happened.”
Pope's vision went red. He spun around and shoved Deran hard. Deran hit the wall. “Get the fuck out!”
Deran didn't move. He just looked at Pope with something that might've been pity. Or heartbreak. Deran has always deemed Pope as unpredictable, but in this moment he was the most predictable he’d ever been. “Okay,” Deran said quietly. “Okay. I'll go.” He picked up the bag of food. Set it on the bed. “Eat something. Please.”
Pope didn't respond. Deran hesitated at the door. “I'm not giving up on you.”
Then he was gone. Pope stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving, his hands still shaking. The bag of food sat on the bed. He didn't touch it.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
Pope drove past the apartment at 2:00 AM. He didn't mean to. He'd been driving aimlessly for hours, no destination, no plan, just moving because sitting still made his skin crawl. But somehow he ended up on your street. The lights were off. You were asleep. Lena was asleep. Safe. For now.
Pope parked across the street, three cars down, where the shadows were thickest.
He told himself he'd leave in five minutes. Just five minutes. Just to make sure you were okay. An hour passed. Then two.
He watched the dark windows. Imagined you inside. Curled up in bed. Lena in the next room. Pope's throat closed. He bit down on his cheek. Hard.
The taste of blood filled his mouth. Sharp. Metallic. Real. He needed the pain. Needed something to anchor him. Because his mind was fracturing. Splitting into pieces he couldn't hold together. He kept seeing the look on your face when he left.
You opening the door to find him gone. Lena asking where Uncle Pope was. You trying to explain that he'd left. That he wasn't coming back. Lena crying. You crying. Forgetting he'd ever existed.
Pope's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He wanted to go inside. Wanted to climb into bed beside you and pretend the last week hadn't happened. Wanted to wake up and find out this was the nightmare. But he couldn't.
Pope started the engine. He drove away before he could change his mind.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
The bar was crowded. Pope sat in the corner, nursing a whiskey he hadn't touched. The noise pressed in on him.
Laughter. Music. Voices blending into a wall of sound that made his head throb.
He shouldn't be here. Should be back at the motel. Should be figuring out what he was going to say to you the next time he saw you.
But he couldn't go back. Couldn't sit in that room with the hole in the wall and the uneaten food and the silence that felt like drowning. A guy bumped into Pope's shoulder. Hard. Deliberate.
“Watch it,” the guy muttered.
Pope didn't respond. The guy turned back to his friends, laughing. Pope's vision tunneled. The guy said something else. Pope didn't hear it.
He was already moving. His fist connected with the guy's jaw. The crack echoed. The guy went down. His friends shouted. Someone grabbed Pope's arm. Pope spun and threw another punch. Then another.
He didn't feel it. Didn't feel the impact or the pain or the hands trying to pull him back. He just kept swinging. Kept hitting. Kept trying to make the thing inside him stop screaming.
Someone tackled him. Pope hit the floor. His head cracked against the tile. Stars burst behind his eyes. Voices shouted. Hands pinned him down. Pope didn't fight. He just lay there, breathing hard, tasting blood.
His knuckles were split open. His lip was bleeding. His ribs ached.
Good.
He wanted it to hurt. Wanted the pain to be outside instead of inside. Wanted something he could see and touch and understand.
The bouncer dragged him to his feet.
“You're done. Get the fuck out.”
Pope stumbled toward the exit. The cold air hit him like a slap. He leaned against the wall, his head spinning, his hands shaking.
His phone buzzed. Deran.
Pope answered without thinking. “Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
Pope looked around. He didn't know. Some bar. Somewhere. “I don't know.”
“Pope-“
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. Tell me where you are and I'll come get you.”
“No.”
“Pope-“
“I said no.” He hung up. His hands were still shaking. He looked down at them. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the pavement. Dark. Steady. He watched it fall.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
3:47 AM
The beach was empty. Pope sat on the rocks, waves crashing dark and endless in front of him. The gun was cold in his hand. He'd been holding it for forty minutes.
Just holding it. Feeling the weight. The promise. The solution. He'd thought about this before. In the cage.
In the dark hours when the guilt became too heavy to carry. But he'd never been this close. Never held the gun with the intention of using it. Never felt this certain that dying was easier than living.
Because living meant existing without you. Living meant knowing he'd destroyed the only good thing he'd ever built. Living meant watching from a distance as you moved to Philadelphia and raised Lena and built a life that didn't include him. Living meant surviving. And Pope didn't want to survive anymore.
He wanted to stop. Wanted the noise in his head to go quiet. Wanted the pain to end. He thought about you. The way you'd looked at him the morning he left. Sleepy. Happy. Trusting. You'd kissed him goodbye like it was nothing. Like he'd be back in an hour. Like he wasn't about to rip your entire world apart.
He thought about Lena. Her laugh. The way she'd started calling him when she had nightmares. The way she'd grabbed his hand in the courtroom. The way she'd looked at him like he was a hero.
She'd grow up without him. She'd ask about him someday. And you'd have to explain that he had left all over again. That he hadn't wanted her. That he'd chosen to walk away.
You'd never know the truth. Never know what leaving you felt like to him. Never know that loving you had been the best and worst thing he'd ever done.
Pope lifted the gun. Slowly. Carefully. His hand didn't shake. He pressed the barrel against his temple. Cold metal. Final. His finger found the trigger. He closed his eyes.
This was easier. Easier than watching Smurf destroy you. Easier than living without you. Easier than pretending he could survive this.
He took a breath. One more. Just one more-
His phone rang.
The sound shattered the silence. Pope's eyes snapped open. The gun stayed pressed against his head. He looked down. Your name lit up the screen. His heart stopped.
For a long moment, he just stared. Maybe he should let it ring. Maybe dying was still the right choice. Maybe-
He answered. “Hello?” His voice came out broken. Wrecked. There was a pause.
“Uncle Pope?” Not your voice. Lena's. Small. Confused. Innocent.
Pope's hand started shaking. The gun dropped to his lap. “Lena?”
“Bambi was sleeping and I pressed the button and it said your name at the top and I wanted to talk to you.”
Pope couldn't breathe. His vision blurred. Tears. Silent. Relentless. “You-you shouldn't be on the phone, sweetheart.”
“I know but I missed you.”
His throat closed. “I miss you too.”
“Where are you?”
Pope looked out at the dark water. The gun in his lap. The rocks beneath him. The stars above. “I'm at the beach.”
“The beach? It's nighttime.”
“I know.”
“Are you looking at the stars?”
Pope looked up. He hadn't even noticed them. Thousands of them. Endless. Beautiful. Indifferent.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I am now.”
“I drew you a picture today.”
“You did?”
“Uh-huh. It's you and me and Bambi and there's a dog because Bambi said maybe we can get a dog when we move to Phila-Philadel-“
“Philadelphia.”
“Yeah. That.”
Pope closed his eyes. More tears. He couldn't stop them. “What color is the dog?” he asked. His voice shook.
Lena didn't notice. “Brown. With spots. And his name is Kevin.”
“Kevin's a good name.”
“I know. Bambi said it was silly but I like it.”
“It's not silly.”
“That's what I said.”
She kept talking. About her drawing. About the dress she'd worn to school. About how she'd learned to spell butterfly and how her teacher said she was doing really good.
About how she'd made a new friend named Sophie who had the same backpack as her. About how she wanted to learn to ride a bike without training wheels.
Pope listened. He didn't say much. Just listened. His hand found the gun again. Not to lift it. Just to hold it. To remind himself how close he'd come. How close he'd been to pulling the trigger. To leaving Lena without understanding why Uncle Pope was gone. To making you find out he was dead. To destroying you all over again in a way you'd never recover from.
“Uncle Pope?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Are you okay?”
Pope's breath hitched. He looked at the gun. Then at the stars. Then at the ocean. “I…” He couldn't lie to her. Couldn't say he was fine when he was sitting on a beach at four in the morning with a gun in his hand. But he couldn't tell her the truth either. “I'm okay,” he whispered.
“Good. Bambi’s been sad. I think she misses you.”
Pope's chest cracked open. “I miss her too.”
“Then why don't you come home?”
He couldn't answer. Didn't know how to explain that home wasn't safe anymore. That loving them meant leaving them. That the only way to protect them was to become the villain.
“I don't know, Lena.”
“Please?” Her voice was so small. So hopeful. So innocent.
Pope's hand tightened on the gun. Then loosened. Then let go completely. “I'll try.”
“Promise?”
He couldn't promise. Couldn't guarantee anything. But he said it anyway.
“Promise.”
“Okay.” Lena yawned. “I'm sleepy now.”
“You should go back to bed.”
“Okay. Will you come see me soon?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Soon.”
“Okay. Love you, Uncle Pope.”
His voice broke completely. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
The line went quiet. Then dead. Pope sat there for a long time. The gun still beside him. The waves still crashing. The stars still watching.
He couldn't do it. Couldn't pull the trigger. Couldn't leave Lena wondering why he'd disappeared. Couldn't make you bury him. Couldn't take the coward's way out. Lena hadn't saved him because she was trying to. She'd saved him because she existed.
Because she'd grabbed your phone in the middle of the night and pressed his name. Because she'd wanted to talk to him about a dog named Kevin and a drawing and the stars. Because she loved him. And he loved her.
And love, even when it hurt, even when it destroyed, even when it felt impossible, was still worth surviving for.
Pope picked up the gun. Looked at it for a long moment. Then he stood and walked to the truck. He opened the glove compartment. Put the gun inside. Closed it. Locked it. He got in the driver's seat. Started the engine.
He didn't know what came next. Didn't know how to survive this. Didn't know how to live without you or how to protect you or how to fix what he'd broken. But he’d try to find his way back to you.
You woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains. For exactly three seconds, you forgot. Your hand reached across the bed automatically. Searching for warmth.
For him. Your fingers found cold sheets. Empty space. And then you remembered.
Pope was gone. You lay there staring at the ceiling, your hand still resting on his side of the bed.
There was an indent in the pillow. A ghost of where his head had been. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to reach into your skull and pull out every memory of him like weeds from a garden.
If only I could erase you.
If only I could rewrite the past and make it so we never met.
If only I could forget the way you said my name.
But you couldn't. Because Lena was already awake in the next room, humming to herself as she got dressed for school.
And you had to be strong. You had to be enough. Even when you felt like you were breaking into a thousand pieces.
You made breakfast on autopilot. Pancakes. Lena's favorite. She sat at the kitchen table swinging her legs, chattering about a project she was working on at school. Something about the solar system. You nodded. Smiled. Poured syrup.
But your hands were shaking. Because Pope had stood in this exact spot days ago. He'd kissed the top of Lena's head. He'd wrapped his arms around you from behind and whispered, “I love you.”
And now he was gone.
You remembered watching a movie once in college. Late at night. Alone in your dorm room. You'd cried at the ending. At the idea that you could erase someone.
That you could choose to forget. That love could be undone. You'd thought it was beautiful.
Tragic. Impossible. Now you understood. Now you wanted it. You wanted to reach into your brain and delete every moment. Every kiss. Every promise. Every time he'd looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Because remembering hurt too much.
“Bambi?”You blinked. Lena was staring at you. “You okay?”
You forced a smile. “I'm fine, sweetheart.”
“When's uncle pope coming back?”
Never.
He's not coming back.
He left us.
“I don't know, baby.”
Lena frowned. “But he promised he'd help me with my project. We were gonna make Saturn together.”
Your chest cracked open. “I'll help you,” you whispered. “We'll make it together.”
Lena's face brightened. “Okay!”
She went back to eating her pancakes. You turned away.
Gripped the edge of the counter. And tried not to fall apart.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
After you dropped Lena off at school, you sat in your car in the parking lot for twenty minutes. Just sitting. Staring. Breathing.
Your phone was in your hand. Deran's number was already pulled up. You pressed call.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
“Hey, it's Deran. Leave a message.”
You hung up. Tried again.
“Hey, it's Deran. Leave a message.”
Again.
“Hey, it's Deran-“
You threw the phone into the passenger seat. Pressed your palms against your eyes. And cried. Deran was your best friend. He was supposed to be there. He was supposed to answer. He was supposed to tell you what the fuck was going on. But he wasn't answering. No one was answering.
You were alone. Again. Always. You picked up the phone. Tried one more time.
“Hey, it's Deran. Leave a message.”
“Deran, it's me,” you whispered. “I need you. Please. I don't know what's happening. Pope left and I don't-I don't understand. Please call me back. Please.”
You hung up. Waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Nothing. You started the car. Drove home. And tried to figure out how to survive the rest of the day.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
The apartment felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Too full of him. His jacket was still draped over the back of the couch.
His coffee mug was sitting in the sink. His toothbrush was still in the bathroom. His scent was still on the pillows. Everywhere you looked, he was there.
And nowhere. You walked through the rooms like a ghost. Touching things. His jacket. His mug. The book he'd been reading. The photo on the fridge of the three of you at the beach.
If I could erase you, would I?
If I could go back and choose not to love you, would I?
If I could rewrite history and make it so we never met, would I?
You didn't know. You didn't know anymore. Because loving him had been the best thing you'd ever done. And losing him was destroying you.
A knock on the door startled you from your thoughts. You weren't expecting anyone.
You opened the door. J stood in the hallway. He looked tired. Older than you remembered.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
You hesitated. Then stepped aside. J walked into the apartment slowly, taking in the space. He turned to look at you. “You okay?”
You almost laughed. “No.”
J nodded. “Yeah. I didn't think so.”
He sat down on the couch.
You stayed standing. “What do you want, J?”
He looked up at you. “I have a plan.”
“A plan for what?”
“To take everything from Smurf.”
Your heart stopped. “What?”
J leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I'm done. I'm done with her. I'm done with this family. I'm done watching her destroy everyone she touches.” He looked at you. “I'm getting out. And I want you to come with me.”
You stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Philadelphia,” J said. “You got into that program, right? Pediatrics?” You nodded slowly. “I'll go with you,” J said. “You and Lena. We'll leave. We'll start over. We'll be a family.”
Your throat tightened. “J-“
“I'm serious.” His voice was steady. Certain. “You're family to me. You always have been. And I'm not gonna let you be abandoned the way my mom was.”
The words hit you like a punch to the chest. Abandoned.
That's what this was. Pope had abandoned you. Just like your mother had. Just like everyone always did.
“Why?” you whispered.
J's jaw tightened. “Because you deserve better. Because Lena deserves better. Because I'm not gonna stand by and watch Smurf destroy another person I care about.”
You sank down onto the couch beside him. “What's the plan?”
J told you. It was meticulous. Calculated. Brutal. He was going to take everything. The money. The properties. The connections. He was going to dismantle Smurf's empire piece by piece until there was nothing left.
And then he was going to disappear. You listened. And with every word, you felt something dark and hungry unfurl in your chest.
When J finished, you looked at him. “Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me Pope doesn't get hurt. Or Craig. Or Deran. Only Smurf.”
J hesitated. “Bambi-“
“Promise me, J.”
He studied your face for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I promise. Only Smurf goes down.”
You exhaled. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. I'm in.”
J's expression shifted.Something like concern. Something like recognition.
“You know what you sound like right now?” he said quietly.
“What?”
“My mom.”
You froze.
J leaned back against the couch. “She used to talk like that. About Smurf. About revenge. About making her pay for everything she'd done. She never wanted the guys to get hurt.” He looked at you. “It consumed her. It destroyed her. And I'm not gonna let it destroy you too.”
Your eyes burned. “Then what am I supposed to do, J? Just... just let her win?”
“No,” J said. “We take her down. But we do it smart. We do it clean. And then we get the fuck out and we never look back.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.” J stood up. “I'll be in touch. Start packing. We leave in two weeks.” He walked to the door. Paused. Turned back. “Bambi?”
“Yeah?”
“You're gonna be okay. I promise.”
He left. You sat there on the couch for a long time. Staring at the jacket. The mug. The photo.
Time waits for no one.
That's what your mother used to say.
Time waits for no one, baby girl. So you better hold on to the good things while you can.
But you hadn't held on. Or maybe you had. Maybe you'd held on so tight that when Pope left, he'd taken pieces of you with him.
Pieces you'd never get back.
Forever.
That's what he'd said. I love you. Forever.
But forever had lasted a year. Forever had an expiration date. Forever was a lie. You stood up. Walked to the bedroom. Opened the closet. Pope's clothes were still hanging there.
His shirts. His jeans. His jacket. You pulled one of his shirts off the hanger.
Pressed it to your face. Breathed in.
God, I want to forget you.
I want to erase every memory.
I want to rewrite history so that I never loved you.
But even as you thought it, you knew it was a lie. Because forgetting him would mean forgetting the way Lena's face lit up when he walked into the room.
Forgetting the way he'd held you after nightmares. Forgetting the way he'd looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Forgetting him would mean losing what was real.
And you couldn't do that. Even if remembering destroyed you. You folded the shirt carefully. Put it back in the closet. And closed the door.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
When you picked Lena up from school that afternoon, she was carrying a drawing.
“Look, Bambi! I made this for Uncle Pope!”
It was a picture of the three of you. Stick figures holding hands. A yellow sun in the corner. A house with a red door.
“It's beautiful, sweetheart.”
“Can we give it to him when he comes home?”
Your chest tightened. “Yeah, baby. We can give it to him.”
If he ever comes home.
If he ever comes back.
If he ever stops running.
Lena climbed into the car. You buckled her in. Drove home. And tried to figure out how to be enough. For her. For yourself.
For the life you were going to have to build without him. Because time didn't wait.
People left. Good things ended. And you had to keep going. Even when it felt impossible.
Even when you wanted to erase everything and start over. Even when the only thing you wanted was to forget. You had to keep going. For Lena.
For yourself. For the future that was waiting. Even if Pope wasn't in it.
J started moving money on a Tuesday. Small amounts at first. Five thousand here. Ten thousand there. Transfers that wouldn't trigger any flags.
Accounts under false names. Shell corporations. Offshore holdings in the Caymans. Panama. Switzerland. He'd been planning this for years. Long before Bambi came along. Long before Pope had walked away. Long before everything had fallen apart.
He sat in his apartment with three laptops open, routing transactions through VPNs and proxy servers, watching numbers shift across screens like digital ghosts.
This was for Bambi. For Lena. For the life they deserved. The life his mother never got.
He told himself that every time his finger hovered over the enter key. Every time doubt crept in. Every time he wondered if he was making the same mistakes Julia had made.
He pressed enter. Another fifty thousand disappeared into an account registered to a corporation that didn't exist.
By the end of week one, he'd moved over five million dollars. Smurf's money.
The family's money. Money that had been earned through blood and violence and decades of criminal enterprise.
And now it was gone. Untraceable. Unreachable. Safe.
J closed the laptops. Leaned back in his chair. And allowed himself one moment of satisfaction. He was winning. For the first time in his life, he was beating Smurf at her own game. But J wasn't just moving money. He was gathering evidence.
Photos of Smurf meeting with known criminals. Documents showing money laundering operations. Bank statements. Property records. Witness statements he'd been collecting for years. Everything was organized in encrypted files on a hard drive hidden in a safety deposit box under a false name. Insurance. That's what he called it. Insurance in case Smurf ever came for him.
In case she ever figured out what he was doing. In case everything went to shit. He sat in his car outside the bank, the safety deposit key in his hand. The weight of it felt heavier than it should. Because he knew what this meant. He was preparing for war.
And in war, people got hurt.
Only Smurf, he reminded himself.
He pocketed the key. Started the car. And drove away.
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
The call came at 9:23 AM on a Thursday. Deran's voice was tight. Controlled. “She's out.”
J's blood went cold. “What?”
“Smurf. Her lawyer got her out. Early release. Some bullshit technicality.”
J closed his eyes. Fuck.
“When?”
“This morning. She's already at the house.”
J hung up. Sat there in his apartment. Staring at the wall. This wasn't supposed to happen yet. He needed more time. More distance. More preparation. But Smurf was out. And she was going to know. She always knew.
Smurf walked into her house like she'd never left. The same confident stride. The same cold smile. The same eyes that saw everything. Pope was sitting on the couch. He looked up when she entered. Didn't stand. Didn't smile. Just looked at her.
“Welcome home,” he said flatly.
Smurf studied him. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air. The tension. The distance.
Pope had always been hers. Always. But now he was looking at her like she was a stranger.
“Where's Bambi?” Smurf asked. Testing.
Pope's jaw tightened. “Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“She’s leaving for philadelphia. She got into a residency program.”
Smurf smiled. “Good. That's good, baby. You did the right thing.”
Pope didn't respond. Just stared at her.
And Smurf realized something. He hated her. Her own son. The one who'd always been loyal. The one who'd always chosen her. He hated her.
She turned away. Walked into the kitchen. Craig was there. Jumpy. Nervous. He barely looked at her. “Hey, Smurf.”
“Craig.” She opened the fridge. Pulled out a beer. Cracked it open. “Where's Deran?”
“At the bar."”
“And J?”
Craig hesitated. “I don't know.”
Smurf took a long drink. Set the beer down “Something's wrong.”
Craig shifted his weight. “What do you mean?”
“I can feel it. Something's off.” She looked at him. “What aren't you telling me?”
“Nothing. I swear.” But his eyes said otherwise.
Smurf smiled. Cold. Predatory. “We'll see.”
𓇬 𓇬 𓇬
J spent three days drafting the email. Writing it. Deleting it. Rewriting it. Making sure every detail was perfect. Every location precise. Every piece of evidence irrefutable. He routed it through seven different VPN servers.
Used a burner email account created on a public library computer. Made sure there was no way to trace it back to him. No digital fingerprints. No paper trail. Nothing.
The email was addressed to the FBI's anonymous tip line.
Subject: Organized Crime Operation - Oceanside, CA
The body was clinical. Detached. Professional. Like he was reporting a broken streetlight instead of destroying his family. He included everything:
- GPS coordinates for three weapons caches
- Addresses of five safe houses
- Bank account numbers for money laundering operations
- Names and photos of known associates
- Detailed descriptions of escape routes and contingency plans
- Evidence of multiple felonies dating back fifteen years
Everything they'd need to take down the entire operation. Everything they'd need to destroy the Cody family. His finger hovered over the send button.
He pressed send. The email disappeared into the void. And J sat there in the dark. Staring at the empty screen. Wondering what he'd just done.
The FBI made their move faster than J had expected. Smurf was in the living room with Pope, Craig, and Deran. They were arguing about something. Money. Jobs. The future.
And then they heard it.
Sirens. Lots of them. Pope walked to the window. Saw the cars. Black SUVs.
Unmarked sedans. SWAT vans.
“Fuck.”
Smurf was on her feet. “What?”
“We've got company.”
She walked to the window. Saw the vehicles. Saw the agents getting out. Saw the SWAT team moving into position.
Her face went white. Then red. Then cold.
“How did they-“ The bullhorn cut her off.
“THIS IS THE FBI. THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
Craig looked at Pope. “What the fuck is happening?”
Pope didn't answer. He was staring at the agents. At the guns. At the end of everything.
Deran was pacing. “We need to get out. We need to-“
“There's nowhere to go,” Pope said quietly.
Smurf's mind was racing. Every escape route. Every safe house. Every contingency plan. All of it compromised. All of it blocked.
Someone had given them everything. Someone had-
“J,” she whispered.
Pope's head snapped toward her. “What?”
“I know J did this. That little shit gave them everything.”
“YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO SURRENDER. AFTER THAT, WE'RE COMING IN.”
Smurf walked to the window. Looked out at the agents. At the guns. At the end of everything she'd built.
“We're not surrendering.”
Pope stared at her. He didn’t want to go back to prison, but he didn’t want to die with you hating him either. “What?”
“We're not surrendering. We fight.”
“Smurf, there's no way out-“
“I SAID WE FIGHT.” Her voice was sharp. Final. Insane.
Pope looked at Craig. At Deran. They were trapped.
And Smurf was going to get them all killed. The five minutes passed. No one came out.
The FBI gave the order. SWAT moved in. Flashbangs exploded through the windows. Smoke grenades filled the rooms. Shouting.
Chaos. Pope grabbed a gun from the safe. Craig did the same. Deran was yelling something but Pope couldn't hear him over the noise.
The front door exploded inward. Agents poured in. “GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!”
Gunfire erupted. Pope fired back. Not aiming. Just shooting. Just trying to survive.
Craig was beside him. Firing. Reloading. Firing again.
Smurf was screaming orders. Deran was trying to get to the back door.
And then a shot rang out. Louder than the others. Sharper.
Craig's body jerked. He stumbled backward. Looked down. Blood. So much blood.
Spreading across his chest. Soaking his shirt. Dark. Thick. Unstoppable.
He looked at Pope. Eyes wide. Confused. Scared.
“Pope-“
He fell. Hit the floor hard. Didn't move. Pope screamed. Dropped his gun. Fell to his knees beside his brother. “CRAIG! CRAIG!”
Blood pooled beneath him.
Too much. Too fast. Pope pressed his hands against the wound. Trying to stop it. Trying to save him.
But the blood kept coming. And Craig's eyes were staring at nothing. Deran was yelling.
Smurf was screaming. The agents were shouting.
And Pope was kneeling in his brother's blood. Watching him die.
“Stay with me,” Pope whispered. “Stay with me, Craig. Please. Please stay with me.”
But Craig's chest wasn't moving. His eyes weren't blinking. And there was so much blood.
summary: Some moments divide your life into two parts: the person you were before, and the person you have to become after. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: ANGST!!!, heartbreak, hurt/no comfort sry, arguing, reader is a motha!!, broken promises, death threats, SMURF!!!, stalking (not pope ;), torment word count: 7.4k amalia’s love note: unfortunately but fortunately there’s a little bit of a time jump. there would be too much area to cover so i’ve condensed it into this chapter as i’d like to get into the juicier parts since I don’t want to stay on this topic for too long. I also know nothing about family court so I apologize if any of it is inaccurate. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
four months ago
Pope's truck skidded to a stop in the prison parking lot, gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine but didn't move, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. His phone had been blowing up for the past hour, J, Craig, Deran all trying to reach him. He'd ignored every call.
Baz was dead.
And you had killed him.
The thought should have devastated him. Baz had been family, had been there since they were kids. But all Pope felt was a cold, seething rage that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the woman waiting inside those concrete walls.
He knew. He fucking knew what Smurf had done.
Pope slammed out of the truck and stalked toward the entrance, the institutional gray building looming ahead like a monument to everything wrong in his life. The security process was degrading, empty his pockets, walk through the metal detector, get patted down by a guard who looked at him like he was already guilty of something. Sign in. Wait. Get buzzed through one locked door, then another, then another. Each one clanging shut behind him with a finality that made his chest tight.
The visiting room was exactly what he expected: fluorescent lights humming overhead, plastic chairs bolted to the floor, metal tables screwed down so nobody could flip them in a rage. Guards stationed at each corner, watching everything. The smell of industrial cleaner and desperation hung in the air. Other inmates sat with their visitors, husbands, kids, lawyers, all of them speaking in hushed tones under the watchful eyes of the COs.
And then there was Smurf.
She sat at a table in the corner, blue jumpsuit somehow looking like a power suit on her. Her hair was pulled back, no makeup, no jewelry, stripped of everything that had made her Smurf Cody on the outside. But it didn't matter. She looked more dangerous here than she ever had in her own kitchen. The prison hadn't diminished her, it had distilled her down to pure, concentrated control.
She watched him approach with those calculating eyes, a slight smile playing at her lips. Like she'd been expecting him. Like this was all going exactly according to plan.
Pope dropped into the chair across from her, the metal cold even through his jeans. He wanted to explode, wanted to scream at her, but the guards were watching and Smurf knew it. She'd orchestrated this perfectly, even the setting was designed to keep him in check.
“Pope.” Her voice was smooth, measured, like they were having coffee instead of sitting in a prison visiting room. “I was wondering when you'd show up.”
“You sent him.” Pope kept his voice low, dangerous, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His hands flexed on the table between them. “You sent Baz to kill her.”
Smurf leaned back in her chair, as much as the bolted-down furniture would allow, and regarded him with that infuriating calm. “Baz made his own choices.”
“Bullshit!” Pope's voice rose slightly, and a guard shifted his weight. Pope forced himself to lower it again, leaning forward. “You sent him to my apartment while she was sleeping. You thought she'd be an easy target. You thought-“
“I thought,” Smurf interrupted, her voice cutting through his rage like a blade, “that we had a problem that needed solving.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “I was right, wasn't I? Look at you. Look at what she's done to you.”
“What you've done!” Pope was shaking now, fury and something else, something that felt too much like fear, warring inside him. “She’s got a body now, Smurf. She killed him in self-defense, and now she's got a fucking body because of you!”
Smurf glanced around the visiting room, at the other inmates and their families, then back to Pope. When she spoke, her voice was even quieter, forcing him to lean in to hear her. “She killed Baz. Your family. And you're here defending her?”
“She killed him because he broke into our apartment to murder her!” Pope's voice cracked. “What the fuck was she supposed to do?”
“She was supposed to die.” Smurf said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment Pope couldn't breathe. “That was the plan, baby. Clean, simple. She disappears, you grieve, you move on. But she couldn't even do that right.”
Pope stared at his mother across the metal table, really seeing her for the first time in a long time. The cold calculation in her eyes. The complete absence of remorse. The blue jumpsuit that should have made her look powerless but somehow made her look more terrifying, because she'd orchestrated a murder from inside a fucking prison cell. “You're insane.”
“I'm practical.” Smurf's hands were folded on the table, perfectly still. “That girl has been poison since the day she ran up my driveway. She's shown you boys things, a life, possibilities, that you were never meant to want. She's made you soft, baby. Made you question this family.”
“She made me happy.” The words came out raw, honest. “For the first time in my life, I was-“
“Weak.” Smurf's voice was gentle, almost tender, which made it worse. “She made you weak, baby. And weakness gets people killed in our world. You know that.”
Pope's jaw clenched. “So you tried to kill her instead. From in here. You're locked up and you still-“
“I tried to protect this family.” Smurf's voice hardened. “I tried to protect you. But now we've got a bigger problem, don't we? Baz is dead. Bambi killed him. And you're sitting here, torn between your blood and some girl who's going to destroy everything we've built.”
“She's not-“
“She already has!” For just a moment, Smurf's composure cracked, her voice rising enough that a guard took a step forward. She caught herself, smoothed it over, lowered her voice again. But Pope had seen it, the rage beneath the control. “Look at you. You're here, in a prison visiting room, confronting your mother, defending the woman who killed your family. She's already turned you against us, Pope. Can't you see that?”
Pope's hands were fists on the table. “You turned me against you when you sent someone to murder my girlfriend.”
Smurf was quiet for a long moment, studying him. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the room, a child started crying. When she spoke again, her voice had returned to that dangerous calm. “You love her.”
It wasn't a question, but Pope answered anyway. “Yes.”
“More than you love this family?”
“That's not-it's not the same thing.”
“Isn't it?” Smurf leaned forward, and Pope found himself unable to look away. “You have to choose, baby. Her or me. Because I promise you, as long as she's in your life, she's a threat to everything we are.”
“You're the threat.” But even as Pope said it, he could feel something shifting inside him. Old patterns, old loyalties, the weight of a lifetime under Smurf's thumb. The visiting room felt smaller suddenly, the walls closing in.
She sat back, and her expression was almost sad. Almost. “I'm your mother. I've kept you safe, kept you fed, kept you alive in a world that would have chewed you up and spit you out. Everything I've done, I've done for you boys.” She gestured around the visiting room, at the prison beyond. “Even this. You think I'm still in here by accident? I'm in here protecting you. Taking the fall so you stay free.”
“You tried to have her killed.”
“And I'll try again.” Smurf said it so casually, so quietly that only Pope could hear. “If you stay with her, I'll keep trying. Because that's what mothers do, Andrew. We protect our children, even from themselves. Even from in here.”
The words hit Pope like a physical blow. “You're threatening her.”
“I'm stating facts.” Smurf's eyes were cold, calculating. “You want to be with this girl? Fine. But understand what that means. It means I can't stop. It means every day she's in your life, she's in danger. From me, from the family, from the consequences of what she's done.” She paused, letting that sink in. “She killed Baz. You think that doesn't have repercussions? You think the people Baz was connected to are just going to let that slide?”
Pope's stomach dropped. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't thought past his rage and his fear for you.
Smurf saw the realization on his face and pressed her advantage. “But if you walk away... if you end it clean, make it clear she's not part of this family... then maybe I can make this go away. Maybe I can protect her from what's coming.”
“By leaving her.” Pope's voice was hollow.
“By saving her life.” Smurf leaned forward again, her voice barely above a whisper. “You love her? Then let her go. Let her have a chance at the normal life she showed you. Because baby, you and I both know, you're not built for normal. You're built for this. For violence. For us. For the family.”
Pope's hands were shaking. He thought about you, The way you believed in him, believed he could be something more than what Smurf had made him.
But he also thought about Baz's body, about the blood on your hands, about the target Smurf had painted on your back. About the fact that his mother had orchestrated a murder from inside a prison cell-if she could do that, what else could she do? What couldn't she reach?
“If I leave her,” Pope said slowly, “you'll leave her alone?”
“If you leave her, I'll make sure she's safe.” Smurf's voice was soft, maternal, monstrous. “I'll make the Baz thing disappear. I'll make sure no one comes after her for it. She can go back to her normal life, and you can come home where you belong.”
“And if I don't?”
Smurf's smile was cold. “Then I'll keep trying to kill her until I succeed. And baby, eventually, I will succeed. You know I will.” She gestured around the visiting room again. “These walls don't stop me. Nothing stops me when it comes to protecting my boys.”
Pope closed his eyes. He did know. Smurf always got what she wanted, one way or another. And if she could orchestrate a hit from inside a prison, there was nowhere you could hide. If he stayed with you, if he chose you over the family, Smurf would make sure you paid the price.
“You're a monster,” he whispered.
“I'm your mother.” Smurf's voice was gentle, final. “And I'm giving you a choice. Save her by leaving her, or watch her die because you were too selfish to let her go.”
Pope stood there, trapped between the woman who'd raised him and the woman who'd tried to save him, knowing that either choice would destroy him. The visiting room felt like a cage. The guards watched. The fluorescent lights hummed. And Smurf sat there in her blue jumpsuit, more powerful than she'd ever been.
But only one choice would keep you alive.
“Okay,” he finally said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Okay. I'll end it.”
Smurf's smile was triumphant. “That's my good boy.”
A guard announced that visiting hours were ending in five minutes. Pope stood, the chair scraping against the floor. Smurf remained seated, watching him with those calculating eyes.
Pope turned and walked toward the exit, each step feeling like a betrayal. Behind him, he heard the guards telling Smurf to stand, preparing to escort her back to her cell. But he didn't look back.
He'd saved your life.
He'd just had to break both your hearts to do it.
present
The courtroom was disappointingly ordinary. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that institutional pallor that made even hope look sickly. Polished wood benches. A flag in the corner. The seal of California mounted behind the judge's bench like it meant something.
Lena sat beside you in an oversized chair, legs swinging beneath her, not quite reaching the floor. She'd insisted on the yellow dress, the one you'd bought her two weeks ago at Target after she'd stood in front of it for ten minutes, touching the fabric like it was made of something precious.
“It makes me look brave,” she'd whispered this morning while you'd helped her with the buttons.
You'd kissed the top of her head, throat tight. She had no idea how brave she'd already been.
Four months. Four months of having your life dissected by strangers with clipboards and kind smiles that never quite reached their eyes. Home studies. Interviews. Background checks so thorough they'd probably known what you ate for breakfast in third grade. Financial records. Psychological evaluations. Letters from professors who'd written about your “exceptional sense of responsibility” and “remarkable maturity.” Letters from neighbors. Letters from Lena's teachers describing how she'd blossomed, how she smiled now, how she'd stopped flinching when adults raised their voices.
The social worker had visited your apartment so many times you'd started keeping her favorite tea stocked. She'd watched you help Lena with homework at the kitchen table. Watched you cook dinner while Lena set the table without being asked. Watched Pope braid Lena's hair after he'd insisted on learning because “she likes the two French braids better, and I should know how to do them.”
She'd seen a family. Even if it hadn't started the conventional way. The judge adjusted his glasses, shuffling through the final stack of paperwork. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Lena's small hand found yours, squeezed tight.
“Miss-“ He said your name, and the sound of it in this room, in this moment, made it feel like someone else's. “You understand the responsibilities that accompany legal guardianship?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
“They are significant.” He looked at you over the rim of his glasses. “You will be responsible for her education. Medical decisions. Her financial wellbeing. Her emotional development. These are not temporary obligations.”
“I understand.”
“You are currently enrolled in medical school.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And employed.”
“I work at my boyfriend's brother's bar while I'm in school.” The words felt strange. Clinical. Like they could somehow capture the reality of your life-studying pharmacology at 2 AM while Lena slept in the next room, working shifts at the bar, making sure there was always food in the fridge and clean clothes in the drawers.
The judge nodded once, made a note. “The court has reviewed your academic records. The letters submitted by your professors describe you as exceptionally responsible. Dedicated.” He paused. “The Department of Children and Family Services has also noted the remarkable bond that has developed between you and Lena over the past four months.”
Lena's fingers tightened around yours. You squeezed back, not trusting yourself to look at her.
“The court has also considered Mr. Cody.”
Your heart stopped. Pope sat one row behind you, silent as a ghost. You could feel him there, the weight of his presence, his hands folded together, his eyes fixed on Lena like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Mr. Cody has demonstrated genuine love and commitment toward his niece,” the judge continued. “The evidence presented shows a man who has made significant efforts to provide stability and care.” The room held its breath. “However.” The word fell like a gavel. “His criminal history prevents this court from awarding him legal custody at this time.”
You felt it, the way Pope's gaze dropped to the floor. Not surprised. He'd known this was coming. You'd both known. But knowing didn't make it hurt less.
“Fortunately,” the judge said, and something in his tone shifted, “this court is not making its decision based solely on love. It is making its decision based upon the child's best interests.”
Your throat closed. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The room was too small. Lena's hand was too small in yours.
“The evidence presented over the past seven months consistently demonstrates that you have provided Lena with a stable, loving, and secure home. You have shown remarkable commitment to her wellbeing. You have proven yourself capable of meeting her needs, emotional, physical, educational, and otherwise.”
Your vision blurred.
“The court therefore grants your petition for legal custody.”
For a second, nothing happened. The words hung in the air, too big to be real. You heard them, but they didn't land. Didn't connect. The fluorescent lights kept humming. Someone coughed. A chair creaked.
Then Lena looked up at you.
“Does that mean...?” Her voice was so small, so fragile, barely carrying across the space between you.
You looked down at her. Tried to speak. Couldn't. Your throat had closed completely, tears burning hot behind your eyes.
The judge smiled, actually smiled, something warm and human breaking through the judicial facade. “It means you get to come home.”
Lena burst into tears.
She threw both arms around your neck with enough force to nearly knock you backward, the chair scraping against the floor. “We get to stay?” Her voice broke on the words, muffled against your shoulder. “We get to stay together?”
You laughed, and it came out as a sob. “Yeah, bug.” Your voice cracked, broke completely. “We get to stay.”
“I don't have to leave?” She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. “I don't have to go?”
“No.” You kissed the top of her head, her hair, her temple. “No, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere.”
She sobbed harder, her small body shaking against yours. Four months of fear, of uncertainty, of not knowing if this fragile thing you'd built together would be allowed to survive, it all came pouring out of her in great, heaving gasps.
Across the room, someone sniffed. Craig. You'd almost forgotten they were there, the whole family crammed into the back row. Deran looked suspiciously emotional, his jaw tight. Even J had turned toward the window, his shoulders tense.
Pope hadn't moved. He was still sitting exactly where he'd been, hands clasped together, head bowed. When you turned to look at him, you saw his eyes were wet. He wasn't crying, not really. Not the way Lena was crying. But his eyes were wet, and he was looking at the two of you like he couldn't quite believe the universe had allowed something good to happen. Like he was afraid to blink in case it all disappeared.
Lena suddenly twisted in your arms. “Uncle Pope!”
He looked up, and something in his expression cracked.
“You get to come home too!” She reached one hand toward him, her face streaked with tears and joy and relief.
The entire courtroom softened. Even the bailiff looked away.
Pope smiled. It was small, disbelieving, like he'd forgotten how. “I do.”
Lena reached for him with both hands now, demanding. Without thinking, Pope stood and crossed the room. He knelt beside your chair, and Lena immediately wrapped one arm around your neck, the other around his, pulling you both together with all the fierce determination only a child could possess.
“There.” She smiled through her tears, proud and certain. “Our family.”
Pope looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you spoke. You didn't have to. His eyes said everything, gratitude and grief and something that looked like hope, all tangled together in a way that made your chest ache.
After everything that had happened, every loss, every fight, every moment you'd thought this would fall apart, this wasn't just a court order. It was proof that somehow, against every odd imaginable, the three of you had found your way home.
The phone call came at 6:47 AM.
Pope was already awake, had been for hours, actually, lying beside you in the dark while you slept. Watching the ceiling. Counting his breaths. Trying not to think about the fact that this was the fifth call this week.
He slipped out of bed before the second ring, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and moving into the hallway. Closed the bedroom door softly behind him. Lena's door was still shut, she'd sleep for another hour at least.
He answered without saying anything.
“Andrew.” Smurf's voice was calm. Pleasant, even. Like she was calling to check in on the weather. “Good morning, baby.”
Pope's jaw tightened. He moved into the kitchen, keeping his voice low. “What do you want?”
“That's no way to talk to your mother.” A pause. “Have you done it yet?”
His stomach twisted. “I'm working on it.”
“Working on it.” She repeated the words slowly, like she was tasting them. “That's what you said four months ago. And again on Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday.”
“It's not that simple-“
“It's very simple, Pope.” Her voice hardened. “You leave her, or I make sure she doesn't make it to the end of the month.”
Pope closed his eyes. Pressed his palm flat against the counter. “She hasn't done anything to you.”
“She took my son from me.” Smurf's tone was matter-of-fact. “Despite everything that's enough.”
“I'm still here-“
“No, you're not.” The words were sharp. Final. “You're in her bed. In her apartment. Playing house with a little girl who isn't even yours. You think I don't see what's happening? You think I'm going to sit in here and watch you build a life that doesn't include me?”
“You're in prison because of your own choices-“
“And you'll be at her funeral because of yours.” Smurf let the silence stretch. “End of the week, Andrew. That's your deadline. You walk away, or I send someone who won't fail like Baz did.”
The line went dead.
Pope stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear. His hand was shaking. He set the phone down on the counter, gripped the edge with both hands, and tried to breathe.
End of the week.
Three days.
Behind him, he heard the bedroom door open. Your footsteps, soft on the hardwood. You appeared in the doorway wearing one of his old shirts, hair messy from sleep, eyes still half-closed.
“You okay?” Your voice was rough. Concerned.
Pope turned, forced his expression into something neutral. “Yeah. Couldn't sleep.”
You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. “You've been weird all week.”
“I'm fine.”
“Liar.” You kissed his shoulder blade through his shirt. “Come back to bed.”
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. Wanted to crawl back under the covers and pretend the last five phone calls hadn't happened. Pretend Smurf was just a bad dream. Pretend he had more than three days left before he had to destroy the only good thing he'd ever built.
“In a minute,” he said.
You squeezed him once, then let go. “Coffee?”
“Yeah.”
You moved to the coffee maker, and Pope watched you, the easy way you moved through the space, the way you knew where everything was, the way this place had become home. For both of you.
Three days.
He was going to lose his mind.
~~~
Lena saw the mail carrier through the window first. “Mail's here!”
You were at the kitchen table, laptop open, reviewing notes for your pharmacology exam. Pope was on the couch, pretending to read but really just staring at the same page he'd been staring at for twenty minutes.
Lena bolted to the door before you could even stand up. “Lena, wait for me-“
But she was already yanking the door open, grabbing the small stack of envelopes from the carrier with a breathless “Thank you!” before slamming the door shut again.
She brought the mail to you like a retriever, proud of herself. “Here!”
You took the stack, flipping through it absently. Bills. Junk mail. A flyer for a pizza place. And then-
You stopped.
The envelope was thick. Cream-colored. Expensive-looking. The return address made your heart stop.
Children's Hospital of Philadelphia Department of Pediatrics Residency Program
Your hands started shaking.
“What is it?” Lena leaned over your shoulder, trying to see.
You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. You just stared at the envelope like it might disappear if you blinked.
Pope looked up from the couch. “Sweetheart?”
You met his eyes. “It's from Philadelphia children’s.”
The room went still.
Lena's eyes went wide. “The doctor program?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
“Open it!” Lena was bouncing now, practically vibrating with excitement. “Open it open it open it-“
Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get the envelope open. You tore at the seal, pulled out the folded letter inside, and-“
Dear Doctor, We are pleased to offer you a position in our Pediatric Residency Program...
You stopped reading. The words blurred. You couldn't breathe.
“What does it say?” Lena grabbed your arm. “What does it say?!”
You looked at her. Then at Pope. Your voice came out as a whisper. “I got in.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Lena screamed.
She launched herself at you, nearly knocking you out of the chair, wrapping both arms around your neck and shrieking with joy. “You got in! You got in you got in you got in-“
You laughed, tears streaming down your face, holding her tight. “I got in.”
“You're gonna be a doctor!” Lena pulled back, her face glowing. “A real doctor!”
“I'm gonna be a doctor.” You were crying now, full-on sobbing, and you didn't even care. Four years of pre-med. Four years of medical school. Endless nights studying. Endless shifts at the bar. Endless moments of doubt, of exhaustion, of wondering if you were insane for even trying-
And you'd done it.
You'd actually done it.
Lena was still bouncing. “Can I come? To Philadelphia? Can I come with you?”
You cupped her face in both hands. “Of course you're coming. We're a package deal, remember?”
“We're going to Philadelphia!” Lena spun in a circle, arms out. “We're moving to Philadelphia!”
You looked at Pope.
He was still sitting on the couch. Still holding the book. But he wasn't reading anymore. He was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read, something caught between pride and pain.
“Andy.” Your voice was soft. “Did you hear?”
He blinked. Stood. Crossed the room in three strides and pulled you into his arms. “I heard.”
You buried your face in his chest. “I can't believe it.”
“I can.” His voice was rough. “You worked your ass off for this.”
“We're going to Philadelphia.” You pulled back to look at him, grinning through your tears. “All three of us. Fresh start. New city. You, me, and Lena.”
Something flickered across his face. Too fast to catch.
“Yeah,” he said. “Fresh start.”
You kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Grateful. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” The words came out strained.
Lena grabbed both your hands. “We have to tell Uncle Deran! And Uncle Craig! And J!”
You laughed. “Okay, okay. Let me call them-“
“No!” Lena was already running for the door. “We have to go tell them in person! This is big news!”
You looked at Pope. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
“Yeah.” He kissed your forehead. “I'm proud of you.”
“We're really doing this.” You squeezed his hand. “We're really getting out.”
Pope's smile cracked at the edges.
“Yeah,” he said. “We're getting out.”
~~~
The celebration at Deran's bar lasted three hours.
Craig bought a round for the entire place. Deran kept hugging you and saying “Holy shit” over and over like he couldn't believe it. Even J cracked a smile, clapping you on the shoulder and muttering something about “making it out.”
Lena was in heaven. She sat at the bar, on a stool, like a grown-up, she kept saying, drinking Shirley Temples and telling anyone who would listen that you were going to be a doctor and she was moving to Philadelphia.
Pope stood at the edge of it all. Watching.
Smiling when someone looked at him. Nodding when Craig made a toast. Laughing when Lena dragged him onto the makeshift dance floor and insisted he spin her around.
But inside, he was falling apart. Every time you smiled, it felt like a knife. Every time Lena talked about Philadelphia, the blade twisted deeper.
Every time someone said “fresh start,” he wanted to scream.
Because he knew. He knew what was coming.
Deran appeared beside him, beer in hand. “You good, man?”
Pope nodded. “Yeah.”
“You don't look good.”
“I'm fine.”
Deran studied him for a long moment. “She's really doing it. Getting out.”
“Yeah.”
“You're going with her, right?”
Pope didn't answer.
Deran's expression shifted. “Pope. You're going with her.”
“I don't know.”
“What the fuck do you mean you don't know?” Deran's voice dropped.
“Plans change.”
“Not this one.” Deran grabbed his arm. “Don't do this to her.”
Pope pulled away. “Do what?”
“Whatever the fuck you're thinking right now.” Deran's jaw was tight. “I know that look. That's your ‘I'm about to do something stupid to protect someone’ look. Don't.”
“You don't know what you're talking about-“
“Smurf got to you.” It wasn't a question.
Pope's silence was answer enough.
Deran swore under his breath. “What did she say?”
“Doesn't matter.”
“It matters if you're about to blow up her life because of it.” Deran stepped closer. “Pope. Listen to me. Smurf is in prison. She can't touch you. She can't touch Bambi. She's just trying to fuck with your head-“
“She said she'd kill her.” Pope's voice was flat. “If I don't leave her by the end of the week, she'll send someone. Someone who won't fail.”
Deran stared at him. “You believe her.”
“You think she won't try again?”
“So what's your plan? Walk away? Break her heart? Pretend you don't love her?” Deran shook his head. “That's not protecting her, man. That's just letting Smurf win.”
“If it keeps her alive, I don't care who wins.”
Across the bar, you laughed at something Craig said. Lena was on your hip, arms around your neck, face pressed against your shoulder. You looked so happy. So free.
Pope's chest ached.
“She'll be better off without me,” he said quietly.
“That's bullshit and you know it.”
“She's going to Philadelphia. Starting over. She doesn't need me dragging her down-“
“She loves you.” Deran's voice was hard. “And you love her. And that little girl over there? She thinks you hung the fucking moon. You walk away now, you destroy all three of you.”
Pope looked at him. “Better destroyed than dead.”
Deran opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked like he wanted to hit something.
“You're making a mistake,” he said finally.
“Probably,” Pope took a long drink. “But it's mine to make.”
Later that night, back at the apartment, Lena fell asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. You carried her to bed, tucking her in and kissing her forehead. When you came back to the living room, Pope was standing at the window, staring out at the street below.
You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “Hey.”
He didn't turn around. “Hey.”
“You've been quiet tonight.”
“Just thinking.”
“About Philadelphia?”
“Yeah.”
You rested your cheek against his back. “I know it's a big change. But it's going to be good. For all of us. New city. Better opportunities. Lena will love it there, they have amazing schools. And the residency program is one of the best in the country.” You squeezed him. “We're really doing this. We're really getting out.”
Pope closed his eyes.
Three days.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “You're getting out.”
You didn't catch the distinction.
You just held him tighter, already dreaming of Philadelphia.
And Pope stood there, memorizing the feeling of your arms around him.
Because he knew.
In three days, this would be gone.
In three days, he'd have to look you in the eye and destroy everything.
In three days, he'd have to walk away from the only family he'd ever wanted.
But you'd be alive.
You'd be in Philadelphia with Lena, starting your residency, building the life you deserved.
And he'd be here. Alone.
Keeping you safe the only way he knew how.
Even if it killed him.
You were in the kitchen making lunch, grilled cheese for Lena, who was at the table coloring a picture of what she imagined Philadelphia would look like. Lots of tall buildings. A park. Three stick figures holding hands.
The knock on the door made you look up.
“I'll get it!” Lena was already scrambling off her chair.
“Wait-“ But she was faster, yanking the door open before you could stop her. She has got to stop doing that.
A delivery guy stood there holding an enormous bouquet. White lilies. Dozens of them. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of arrangement that cost more than your weekly grocery budget.
“Delivery for...” He checked the card. “Bambi?”
Your stomach dropped.
“That's her!” Lena pointed at you, delighted. “Someone sent you flowers!”
You crossed the room slowly, dread pooling in your chest. “Who are they from?”
The delivery guy shrugged. “No idea. Just says to deliver them here.” He handed you the bouquet. “Have a nice day.”
He was gone before you could ask anything else. You stood there holding the flowers, staring at the small white envelope tucked between the lilies. Your hands were shaking.
“Open it!” Lena bounced beside you. “Who sent them?”
You pulled the card out with numb fingers.
The handwriting was elegant. Feminine. Precise.
Did you miss me?
That was it.
No signature.
No name.
Just four words that made your blood run cold.
“Who's it from?” Lena tried to peek at the card.
You closed your fist around it. “Nobody. Just... a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Lena frowned. “But they're so pretty-“
“Go finish your picture, bug.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “I'll bring your lunch in a minute.”
Lena's face fell, but she went back to the table without arguing.
You carried the flowers to the kitchen counter, set them down, and stared at the card again.
Did you miss me?
Smurf.
It had to be Smurf.
But she was in prison. How the hell-
Your phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
Check your mailbox.
Your heart stopped.
You looked at Lena. She was focused on her coloring, humming softly to herself.
“I'll be right back,” you said.
“Where are you going?”
“Just checking the mail. Two minutes.”
You grabbed your keys and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind you. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get the mailbox key into the lock.
Inside was a single manila envelope. No return address. No postage. Hand-delivered.
You tore it open right there in the hallway. Photographs spilled out. Your knees nearly gave out.
The first photo: you and Lena walking to the park. Three days ago. You remembered that day, Lena had insisted on wearing her new sneakers.
The second photo: you leaving the apartment building. Yesterday morning. Coffee in hand. Backpack over your shoulder.
The third: Lena getting off the school bus. Alone. Smiling. Unaware someone was watching her.
The fourth: you and Pope in the parking lot outside Deran's bar. Last week. His arm around your waist. Your head on his shoulder.
There were more.
So many more.
Someone had been following you. For weeks. Maybe longer. Someone had been watching Lena.
Your vision blurred. Your chest tightened. You couldn't breathe.
The hallway tilted.
You grabbed the wall to steady yourself, photographs clutched in your shaking hands.
Smurf.
Smurf had sent someone to watch you. To follow you. To prove that even from prison, she could reach you. She could reach Lena.
The message was clear: I can get to you anytime I want.
You shoved the photos back into the envelope and stumbled back to the apartment. Locked the door behind you. Checked the deadbolt twice. Then checked it again.
“You okay?” Lena looked up from her drawing.
“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “I'm fine.”
You weren't fine. You were the furthest thing from fine.
You pulled out your phone and called Pope.
He answered on the first ring. “Hey-“
“Where are you?”
Something in your voice made him pause. “At the house. Why? What's wrong?”
“Come home. Now.”
“Sweetheart-“
“Now, Andrew.”
You hung up.
Lena was staring at you. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetheart.” You forced a smile. “Uncle Pope's coming home early.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“No. Nobody's in trouble.”
But you were lying. You were all in so much trouble.
~~~
Pope arrived fourteen minutes later. You heard his truck pull up outside. Heard his footsteps on the stairs. Heard his key in the lock.
The second he stepped through the door, you shoved the envelope into his hands.
“Look.”
He frowned. “What-“
“Just look.”
He opened the envelope. Pulled out the photos. His entire body went rigid.
“When did you get these?”
“Twenty minutes ago. Someone left them in my mailbox.” You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “And before that, someone delivered flowers. With a card.”
You handed him the card.
Pope read it. His jaw tightened. “Smurf.”
“She's been having us followed.” Your voice shook. “For weeks, Andy. Someone's been watching us. Watching Lena.”
Pope flipped through the photos again, his expression darkening with each one. When he got to the picture of Lena getting off the school bus, his hands started shaking.
“She's in prison,” you said. “How is she doing this?”
Pope didn't answer. He just stared at the photo of Lena, his face pale.
“Andy.” You grabbed his arm. “How is she doing this?”
“She has people.” His voice was flat. “She's always had people.”
“Then we go to the police-“
“And tell them what?” He looked at you. “That my mother sent flowers and took some pictures? They're not going to do anything.”
“She's threatening us-“
“She's not threatening you.” Pope's voice was hollow. “She's threatening me.”
You stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
He didn't answer.
“Andy.” Your voice hardened. “What are you talking about?”
He set the photos down on the counter. Ran both hands through his hair. Turned away from you.
“She's been calling me,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
“Every day for months. From prison. Telling me to leave you.”
The room tilted.
“You-“ You couldn't form words. “You've been talking to her?”
“She said if I didn't end it, she'd send someone after you.” Pope's voice cracked. “Someone who wouldn't fail like Baz did.”
Everything stopped.
“How long?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “How long have you known?”
“Four months.”
“Four months.” You repeated the word like it was foreign. “You've for four months that she was threatening to kill me, and you didn't tell me?”
“I was trying to protect you-“
“By lying to me?” Your voice rose. “By keeping this from me?”
“I didn't want you to be scared-“
“I'm fucking terrified, Andrew!” You were shaking now. “Someone's been following me. Following Lena. Taking pictures of us like we're-like we're targets-“
“You are targets.” Pope's voice was raw. “As long as you're with me, you're targets.”
The words hung in the air.
You stared at him. “What are you saying?”
Pope looked at you. His eyes were red. Devastated.
“I'm saying I have to leave.”
“No.” The word came out sharp. Final. “No, you don't.”
“She's not going to stop-“
“Then we'll figure it out-“
“There's nothing to figure out!” Pope's voice rose for the first time. “She's in prison and she still got to you! She still found a way! What do you think happens when you're in Philadelphia? When you're alone with Lena and I'm not there to-“
He stopped.
Closed his eyes.
“You think leaving is going to keep us safe?” Your voice shook. “You think walking away is going to make her stop?”
“I think it's the only chance you have.”
“That's bullshit-“
“She wants me to choose!” Pope's voice cracked. “She wants me to choose between her and you, and if I choose you, she'll kill you just to prove she can!”
“So you're choosing her?”
“I'm choosing to keep you alive!”
“By abandoning us?”
“Yes!” The word came out like a roar.
The apartment went silent.
From the living room, you heard a small, frightened sound.
You both turned.
Lena was standing in the doorway. Her coloring book was on the floor. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide and wet.
“Uncle Pope?” Her voice was tiny. Scared.
Pope's expression shattered.
“Lena-“ He took a step toward her.
She took a step back.
“Why are you yelling?”
“I'm not-“ Pope stopped. Lowered his voice. “I'm sorry, bug. I didn't mean to scare you.”
“Are you leaving?” Lena's chin trembled. “Are you leaving us?”
Pope looked at you.
Then back at Lena.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”
Lena's face crumpled. “Why?”
“Because I have to.”
“But you said-“ Her voice broke. “You said we were a family. You said we were staying together.”
“I know.” Pope crouched down to her level. “I know what I said.”
“Then why are you leaving?” Tears streamed down her face. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Pope's voice cracked. “No, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong.”
“Then stay.” Lena grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Please stay.”
Pope closed his eyes. “I can't.”
“Yes, you can!” Lena was sobbing now. “You can stay! You can stay with us!”
“Lena-“
“Please don't go!” She threw her arms around his neck. “Please, Uncle Pope. Please don't leave.”
Pope held her. His shoulders shook. He pressed his face against her hair and just held her while she cried.
You stood there watching, your heart breaking into pieces.
After a long moment, Pope gently pulled Lena's arms from around his neck. He kissed her forehead. Stood up.
“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Lena nodded, still crying.
“I'm always going to love you.” Pope's voice was barely holding together. “But I have to go.”
He turned to you.
You were crying too now. Silent tears streaming down your face.
“Don't do this,” you whispered.
“I have to.”
“No, you don't.” You crossed the room, grabbed his arm. “We can fight this. Together. We can-“
“She'll kill you.” Pope's voice broke. “She'll kill you and I'll have to live with that. I can't-“ He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I can't lose you like that.”
“So you're losing me like this instead?”
Pope didn't answer.
He just looked at you. Memorizing your face. Like he was trying to hold onto something that was already gone.
Then he pulled away.
He walked to the bedroom. You heard drawers opening. Closing. The sound of a duffel bag being zipped.
When he came back out, he had the bag over his shoulder.
He stopped in front of Lena. Crouched down one more time.
“You're going to be okay,” he said softly. “You're going to go to Philadelphia and you're going to have the best life. And she-“ He nodded toward you. “She's going to take care of you. Better than I ever could.”
“I don't want just her to take care of me.” Lena's voice was small. Broken. “I want you.”
Pope's face crumpled. He kissed her forehead one last time. “I love you, bug.”
Then he stood.
He looked at you.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
You didn't respond.
You just stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the man you loved walk toward the door.
He stopped with his hand on the knob.
“This is my apartment,” he said quietly. “Lease is in my name. You and Lena stay here as long as you need. I'll keep paying rent until you leave for Philadelphia.”
“I don't want your money.”
“I know.” Pope opened the door. “But you're getting it anyway.”
He stepped into the hallway.
“Pope.” Your voice stopped him.
He turned.
“If you walk out that door,” you said, “don't come back.”
Something flickered across his face. Pain. Regret. Resignation.
“I won't,” he said.
And then he was gone.
The door closed. The lock clicked. And you stood there in the apartment that wasn't yours, holding a little girl who was sobbing into your shoulder, staring at the space where Pope had been.
He was gone. He'd actually left.
Behind you, the white lilies sat on the counter. Beautiful. Elegant. Poisonous.
summary: Life. Death. Maybe the line between them was never as wide as people liked to believe. Sometimes it all comes down to a single choice, a single second, and when the dust settles, one person gets to keep living while another doesn’t. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: DARK, gore, violence, manipulation, coercion to do harm, mentions of murder, major character death, SMURF!!, bodily injury, blood, MURDER, grief & the darkness that comes with grieving, self-hatred, depression, anxiety, accidental self harm, throwing up, dissociation, mentions of an eating disorder, extreme angst, the boys are hurting rn. word count: 7.8k. amalia’s love note: so um… good luck? bring tissues. idk what’s wrong with the gif i’ve tried to so hard to get that black box to go away lol and it won’t so i’m sorry. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Smurf sat in the visitation booth, the phone pressed to her ear, her eyes cold as she stared through the reinforced glass. The guard she'd paid off stood at the far end of the room, back turned, pretending not to notice the privacy she'd bought.
“You listening?” she said into the phone.
A pause.
Then a voice on the other end. “Yeah. I'm listening.”
“Good.” Smurf's jaw tightened. “Because I'm only going to say this once.” Another pause.
She could hear breathing. Unsteady. Anxious. “Smurf, I don't know if-“
“I don't care what you know,” she cut in, her voice sharp. “I care what you're going to do.” Silence. Smurf leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Someone put me in here,” she said quietly. “Someone lied to the cops. Planted evidence in my house. Made sure I'd take the fall for something I didn't do.”
“I know, but-“
“And I know who it was.”
The breathing on the other end stopped. Then started again. Faster. “Smurf-“
“That little bitch who's been fucking Pope,” Smurf said, her voice dripping with venom. “She did this. She framed me. And now Pope's out and I'm in here.”
“Are you sure? I mean, how do you-“
“I'm sure.” Smurf's hand tightened around the phone. “I've had days to think about it. Days to put it together. And it all points to her.”
A long pause. “What do you want me to do?”
Smurf smiled. Cold. Predatory. “I want you to go to her apartment,” she said. “And I want you to kill her.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Smurf-“
"You heard me.”
“I can't-I can't just-“
“Yes you can.” Smurf's voice was calm now. Controlled. “You can and you will.”
“She's-she's Pope's-“
“I don't give a fuck whose she is,” Smurf snapped. “She put me in here. She took everything from me. And she's going to pay for it.”
“But Pope-“
“Pope will get over it.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know he's my son,” Smurf said, her voice hardening. “And I know where his loyalty belongs. Once she's gone, he'll come back to me. He always does.”
Another pause. Longer this time. “I don't think I can do this.”
Smurf's expression didn't change. “You remember who got you out of that mess in San Diego?” she asked quietly.
The breathing on the other end hitched. “Yeah.”
“You remember who made sure you didn't go to prison when that deal went south?”
“Yeah.”
“You remember who's kept you fed, kept you safe, kept you in this family?” Silence. “Me,” Smurf said. “I did all of that. And now I'm asking you to do one thing for me.”
“Smurf-“
“One thing,” she repeated. “That's all. You do this, and we're square. You don't-“ She let the threat hang in the air. “Well. You know what happens if you don't.”
The person on the other end was quiet for a long moment. Smurf could practically hear the wheels turning. The fear. The conflict. The inevitable surrender.
“How do I-“ The voice was shaky now. “How do I even-“
“You break in,” Smurf said simply. “Middle of the night. She's alone most of the time. Pope's been staying there but he's not always around. You wait until he's gone. You go in. You handle it.”
“And if Pope finds out it was me-“
“He won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you're going to make it look like a robbery gone wrong,” Smurf said. “Take some shit. Make it messy. No one will know it was you.”
Another pause.
“I don't know if I can do this,” the voice said again, quieter this time.
Smurf's eyes went cold. “You don't have a choice.”
“Smurf-“
“You think I'm asking?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. Dangerous. “I'm not asking. I'm telling you. You owe me. And this is how you pay me back.”
Silence.
Then, finally: “When?”
Smurf smiled. “Soon as you can,” she said. “Before she has time to get comfortable. Before Pope gets too attached. You do it fast, you do it clean, and you make sure she doesn't see it coming.”
“Say it again.”
“Okay. I'll do it.”
“Good.” Smurf leaned back slightly, satisfied. “And when it's done, you call me. You let me know it's handled.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Don't fuck this up.”
“I won't.”
“You better not.” Smurf's voice was ice. “Because if you do, if you let her live, if you let Pope find out what you were supposed to do-“ She paused. “You know what I'm capable of.”
The breathing on the other end was ragged now. Terrified.
“I know.”
“Then we understand each other.”
“Yeah. We do.”
Smurf nodded, even though the person on the other end couldn't see her.
“Good,” she said. “Now go. And don't call me until it's done.”
Set the phone back in its cradle. And stared through the glass at the chair on the other side. Her expression was calm. Satisfied. She'd set the wheels in motion.
And soon, the little bitch who'd put her in here would be dead. Pope would mourn. But he'd come back to her. He always did.
Smurf stood. Nodded to the guard. And walked back to her cell, already planning her next move.
He stood outside the apartment building, staring up at the third-floor window. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets. This was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But the order had been clear. Do this, or there will be consequences. The threat was implicit. Always was with people like her. She didn't need to spell it out. He knew what happened to people who disappointed her. He'd seen it. Hell, he'd been the main person to make it happen more than once.
But this was different. This was someone Pope cared about. Someone who'd gotten under all their skin in the span of a few months. Someone Pope looked at like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. And she wanted her dead. He pulled the mask from his pocket. Black. Simple. He pulled it over his face.
Then moved to the stairs leading to the front door. He climbed. Quietly. Carefully. He knew getting in would be an issue, Pope was too protective of her to let anything happen.
He knelt down in front of the door knob, taking a lock pick kit out of his pocket and quickly unlocking the door. He knew she felt safe here. Protected. She had no idea what was coming.
He opened the door. Paused. Listened. Silence. He walked in. His boots hit the floor without a sound. The apartment was dark. Quiet. He could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The distant sound of traffic outside. Nothing else. He moved through the living room. Past the couch. Past the coffee table with a coloring book and crayons scattered across it. His gaze softened at the sight slightly.
He kept moving. Down the hallway. Toward the bedroom. The door was cracked open. He pushed it wider. And there she was. Asleep. Curled on her side. Wearing one of Pope's shirts, oversized, hanging off her shoulder. A pair of panties. Nothing else. Her hair was spread across the pillow. Her breathing slow. Even. Peaceful.
His stomach turned. He didn't want to do this. But her voice echoed in his head. Don't fuck this up. He crossed the room. Stood over the bed. Looked down at her. She looked so small. Vulnerable. He reached out. His hand hovered over her mouth. Just do it fast, he told himself. Make it quick. She won't even know what's happening. He pressed his hand down over her mouth. Hard.
…
A hand clamped over your mouth. Hard. Brutal. Your eyes flew open to darkness and a figure looming over you, and panic exploded through your chest like a bomb going off.
You tried to scream but the hand pressed harder, cutting off the sound, suffocating you. You thrashed beneath the weight, kicked wildly, your hands flying up to claw at the arm holding you down. Your nails dug into flesh and fabric, desperate, frantic.
“Stop fucking moving,” a voice hissed. Male. Familiar but you couldn't place it through the terror coursing through your veins.
You didn't stop. You couldn't. Your survival instinct had taken over completely. Your nails dug deeper into his arm and he swore, his grip loosening just enough for you to twist your head and bite down on his palm. Hard.
You tasted copper and he yanked his hand back with a curse and you screamed. “HELP-“
His fist connected with the side of your head before you could finish. Stars exploded across your vision. Pain. Sharp and disorienting.
You fell back against the pillows, dazed, and he was on you again. His weight crushing. Suffocating. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pure animal terror. You bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off, your hands finding his face and scratching, clawing, felt skin tear beneath your nails.
One of your nails caught on something, the mask, his skin, you didn't know, and snapped back. The pain was sharp and immediate but you didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
He grabbed your wrists and slammed them down against the mattress hard enough to make you cry out. “I said stop-“
You brought your knee up hard between his legs. He grunted. His grip loosened. You twisted. Rolled. Fell off the bed and hit the floor hard. Your shoulder screamed in protest but you didn't stop.
You scrambled toward the nightstand on your hands and knees, your breath coming in panicked gasps. Pope's gun. It was always there. Always loaded.
The figure lunged after you. Grabbed your ankle. Dragged you back across the floor. You kicked wildly, your heel connecting with something, his face, his chest, you didn't know, and he let go.
You lunged forward. Your hand closed around the gun. Cold. Heavy. Real. You spun around, raised it with shaking hands.
The figure was already coming at you. Mask covering his face. Dark clothes. Hands reaching for you. You didn't think. Didn't hesitate. You pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the small room. The recoil jolted through your arms.
The figure stopped. Stumbled. His hand went to his chest just over his heart. Dark liquid spreading across his shirt. He fell. Hit the floor with a heavy thud. And didn't move.
You stood there frozen, gun still raised, hands shaking so hard you could barely hold it. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps. Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you thought it might break through.
The room spun around you. You looked down at the body. At the blood pooling beneath him, spreading across your floor. At the stillness. The absolute stillness. A sob tore from your throat. Then another. You dropped the gun. It clattered against the floor.
Your legs gave out and you collapsed, shaking, sobbing, you couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
Your phone. You needed your phone. You crawled toward the bed, your hands shaking so badly you could barely grab it from the nightstand.
You unlocked it with trembling fingers. Pulled up Pope's number. Hit call. It rang once.
“Sweetie?” His voice. God, his voice. You tried to speak but all that came out was a broken sob, your throat closing up. “Bambi, what's wrong-“
“Someone-“ Your voice cracked, barely recognizable. “Someone broke in-I-“
“Are you hurt?”
“I shot him-“ The words tumbled out in a rush, hysterical. “He-he came at me and I-Andrew, I shot him-he's not moving-there's so much blood-“
“Where are you?”
“Home but- I'm- I can't-“
“Stay there. Lock the door. I'm coming.” The line went dead.
You sat there on the floor, staring at the body, at the blood, at what you'd done. Your whole body shook violently. You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and sobbed. You couldn't look away from him. From the blood. From the proof that you'd just killed someone. The minutes stretched endlessly. You didn't know how long you sat there. Time had stopped meaning anything.
Pope arrived in less than ten minutes. You heard the door slam open. Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Multiple sets.
“Sweetheart.” He was in the doorway, Deran right behind him, then Craig, then J. They'd clearly all been together when you called.
Pope's eyes found you first, sitting on the floor, shaking, blood on your hands, his shirt hanging off your shoulder, your legs bare and covered in bruises already forming. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands immediately on your face, your shoulders, checking for injuries with frantic precision.
Deran was at your other side in an instant, kneeling beside you, his hand gently taking yours to examine your broken nail, the blood under your nails, the red mark blooming across your cheekbone where you'd been hit. His eyes scanned over you with the careful attention of someone who knew what to look for, his jaw tight with barely contained rage at whoever had done this to you.
“Are you hurt?” Pope's voice was steady but you could hear the fear underneath. You shook your head, couldn't speak, your throat too tight. “Bambi-look at me-“ You met his eyes, saw the terror there, the fury. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know,” you finally whispered, though your voice didn't sound like yours.
His jaw clenched. He looked over his shoulder at the body, at the blood spreading across your floor.
Deran's hand moved to your shoulder, squeezing gently, grounding you. “You're okay,” Deran said quietly, his voice steady and sure. “You fought back. You did exactly what you needed to do.”
Deran looked down at your bare legs and didn't hesitate. He moved to your dresser, pulled open a drawer, grabbed the first pair of sweatpants he found and brought them over. “Here,” he said quietly, his eyes kind despite the situation. Craig and J immediately turned around, giving you privacy without being asked.
Pope helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands steady and gentle as he helped you pull the sweatpants on. Your hands were still trembling too badly to do it yourself. Deran stood close, ready to catch you if you fell.
When you were covered, Pope pulled you against his chest, one hand in your hair, the other wrapped around your back, holding you together. “You're okay,” he murmured against your hair. “You're okay. I've got you.” You buried your face in his chest and sobbed, your whole body shaking against him.
Deran's hand found your shoulder again, rubbing slow, grounding circles, his presence solid and reassuring beside you. “You're safe now,” Deran said quietly. “We're here. You're safe.”
Craig moved toward the body, J following close behind. “Who the fuck is this?” Craig muttered, his voice tight. He crouched down, reached for the mask, his hand hesitating for just a moment before he pulled it off. And froze. “Oh fuck.”
Pope's head snapped up. “What?”
Craig looked back at him, his face pale, shocked. “It's Baz.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. You pulled back from Pope, stared at Craig, at the body, at Baz's face, slack, lifeless, blood still spreading beneath him. A sound tore from your throat. Not fear. Not relief. Grief. Raw and devastating and crushing.
“No-“ You stumbled forward, Pope's arms the only thing keeping you upright. “No no no-“ Pope caught you, held you back from the body.
“Bambi-“
“I killed him-“ Your voice broke completely, sobs wracking through you. “I killed Lena's dad-oh god-I killed Lena's dad-“
The realization crashed over you in waves. Not that Baz was dead. Not that you'd taken a life. But that you'd just made Lena an orphan. That little girl who'd already lost her mother, who you'd been taking care of, who trusted you, you'd just killed her only living parent.
The sobs came harder now, uncontrollable, your legs giving out. You collapsed against Pope and he held you, his arms tight around you, his hand in your hair. Deran's hand never left your shoulder, his grip firm and steady, anchoring you.
“It's not your fault,” Pope said quietly, fiercely. “You didn't know.”
But it didn't matter. You'd killed him. Lena's father. The only parent she had left. And now it was clear. Crystal clear. Smurf had sent him. Smurf had ordered this. She'd sent Baz, one of their own, to kill you. And now he was dead. And Lena was alone. And it was all because of you. You sobbed into Pope's chest, your whole body shaking violently. Deran's hand moved from your shoulder to rub your back in slow, soothing circles, his other hand coming up to steady you.
Craig and J stood over Baz's body, the weight of what had happened settling over all of them. You'd just killed their brother. Their family.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered between sobs, looking at Craig and J through your tears. “I'm so sorry-I didn't know-I didn't-“
Pope's arms tightened around you. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his voice hard and certain.
“You defended yourself. You did what you had to do.” Deran nodded, his hand still on your back. “He came here to kill you, Bambi. You didn't have a choice.” But it didn't feel like enough.
The first three days were the worst. You couldn't eat without your stomach turning, couldn't sleep without seeing Baz's face, couldn't look at Lena without feeling like you were going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Pope found you in the bathroom the morning after, hunched over the toilet, dry heaving because there was nothing left in your stomach to bring up. He didn't say anything, just pulled your hair back and rubbed circles on your back until the shaking stopped.
Lena was placed temporarily with you and Pope while the state sorted out custody arrangements. But you were still her primary caregiver, still the one who made her breakfast, brushed her hair, read her bedtime stories. You threw yourself into it with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, making sure every meal was perfect, every outfit carefully chosen, every moment of her day filled with love and attention. You were trying to make up for what you'd done, even though she didn't know, even though she could never know.
“I want pancakes,” Lena said one morning, and you made them from scratch. Chocolate chip. Her favorite. You cut them into perfect shapes and arranged them on her plate like you were plating for a restaurant. Pope watched you from the doorway, his expression unreadable. You could feel his eyes on you but you didn't look up, just kept moving, kept doing, because if you stopped you'd fall apart.
You barely ate. The guilt sat in your stomach like a stone, heavy and immovable. Pope started bringing you water before you even realized you were thirsty, setting it on the counter while you cooked, on the nightstand while you pretended to sleep. He learned your patterns faster than you did, knew when the nausea would hit, when you'd need to excuse yourself, when you'd spend twenty minutes in the bathroom trying to pull yourself together.
“You need to eat something,” he said quietly one night after Lena was asleep. You were sitting on the bathroom floor, your back against the tub, exhausted.
Pope sat down beside you and handed you a sleeve of crackers. Plain. Bland. The only thing you could sometimes keep down. You took them without a word and he stayed there, his shoulder pressed against yours, solid and steady.
The nightmares came every time you closed your eyes. Baz's face. The gun in your hand. The sound of the shot. Lena crying for her daddy. You'd wake up gasping, your heart racing, and Pope would already be awake, his hand on your back, his voice low and calm. “You're okay. I'm here. You're okay.” He never asked if you wanted to talk about it. He just stayed.
By the end of the first week, you'd lost weight you couldn't afford to lose. Your clothes hung looser. Your face looked hollow. Pope started making you protein shakes in the morning, thick and sweet, easier to get down than solid food. He'd hand them to you without comment and you'd drink them slowly, mechanically, because he'd made them and you couldn't bear to waste his effort.
Lena didn't notice. Or if she did, she didn't say anything. You made sure of that. Around her, you were bright and cheerful and endlessly patient. You played every game she wanted to play, read every book twice, let her pick out her own clothes even when they didn't match. You were perfect. You had to be perfect. Because you'd taken her father and the least you could do was give her everything else.
“You're doing too much,” Deran said one afternoon when he stopped by. You were in the middle of making homemade playdough with Lena, flour dusting your hands, your smile fixed in place. Deran looked at you like he could see right through it. “Bambi, you need to slow down.” You just shook your head and kept kneading the dough, your movements mechanical, your mind somewhere else entirely.
Pope started anticipating your needs before you even knew what they were. He'd have the bathroom light on and a glass of water waiting when you stumbled out of bed at 3 AM. He'd have ginger tea steeping when you came back from dropping Lena off at preschool. He learned the exact moment when you'd need to step away, when the guilt would rise up and choke you, and he'd quietly take over whatever you were doing without making you ask.
The second week was somehow worse. The shock had worn off and all that was left was the raw, unrelenting guilt. You'd killed someone. You'd made a child an orphan. It didn't matter that he'd been trying to kill you. It didn't matter that you'd had no choice. All that mattered was that Lena would grow up without a father because of you.
You stopped being able to keep anything down. Even the protein shakes made you nauseous. Pope found you in the kitchen one morning, staring at the coffee maker, your hands shaking so badly you couldn't press the button. He didn't say anything, just gently moved you aside and made the coffee himself. Then he made you sit down and put a piece of toast in front of you. “Just try,” he said quietly. You managed two bites before you had to run to the bathroom.
Lena asked about her dad once. “When is Daddy coming back?” she said, looking up at you with those big, trusting eyes. Your heart stopped. Your throat closed. You couldn't breathe. Pope appeared from nowhere and scooped her up, distracting her with a game, giving you time to pull yourself together in the hallway. When you came back, your eyes were red but your smile was in place. Lena didn't notice. Pope did.
You started having panic attacks. They'd come out of nowhere, in the middle of making lunch, while folding laundry, during Lena's bath time. Your chest would tighten, your vision would blur, and suddenly you couldn't breathe. Pope learned to recognize the signs before you did. He'd appear at your side, his hand on the small of your back, his voice steady. “Breathe with me. In. Out. You're okay. I've got you.”
The guilt was eating you alive from the inside out. You could feel it, physical and viscous, coating your insides, making everything hurt. You'd wake up and immediately feel sick. You'd look at Lena and want to cry. You'd catch your reflection in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Pope watched it all with quiet, devastating attention, learning every pattern, every trigger, every moment you were about to break.
He started sleeping lighter. You'd shift in bed and he'd wake up, his hand finding yours in the dark. You'd get up to check on Lena and he'd follow, standing in the doorway while you smoothed her hair and adjusted her blankets. You were falling apart and he was holding you together with his bare hands, piece by piece, moment by moment.
“I can't do this,” you whispered one night, your voice breaking. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands, your whole body shaking.
Pope knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees. “Yes, you can,” he said quietly. “You are. You're doing it right now.” But it didn't feel like it. It felt like drowning. Like suffocating. Like dying slowly from the inside out.
By the end of the second week, you were a shell of yourself. Hollow. Exhausted. Running on nothing but guilt and determination to be good enough for Lena. Pope had learned every single one of your patterns, knew when you'd get sick, when you'd need space, when you'd need him close. He anticipated everything. Water. Crackers. A hand on your back. A quiet presence in the doorway. He held you together when you couldn't hold yourself.
And through it all, you kept going. Kept taking care of Lena. Kept smiling when she looked at you. Kept pretending you were okay. Because what else could you do? You'd killed her father. The least you could do was love her enough for both of you. Even if it was killing you. Even if you were drowning. Even if every single day felt like punishment for a crime you couldn't undo.
The bar was quiet for a Tuesday summer afternoon. You stood behind the counter, methodically slicing lemons for the evening rush that would come. The knife moved in steady rhythm, slice, quarter, slice, quarter, the repetitive motion the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. You knew why you were here. Deran had offered you the job again the day after Baz, claiming he needed extra help, but you weren't stupid. They wanted you where someone could watch you. Where you couldn't fall apart alone.
The boys were in the back office. You could hear their voices, low and serious, discussing some job Pope was planning. Craig's laugh. J's quiet interjection. Deran's skeptical response. Normal. Everything was supposed to be normal. But nothing felt normal anymore. Not since you'd pulled that trigger. Not since you'd made Lena an orphan.
Pope emerged from the back, his footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. You didn't look up from the cutting board, just kept slicing, the citrus smell sharp and clean in your nose. He stopped on the other side of the bar, and you could feel his eyes on you. Assessing. Worried. Always worried now. “Bambi,” he said quietly.
You set down the knife. Looked up. His expression was carefully neutral, but you could see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands flexed at his sides. Something was wrong. “What?” Your voice came out flat. Emotionless. You'd gotten good at that lately.
“I heard from the state.” Pope's eyes never left yours. “They're moving Lena to foster care at the end of the week.” The words hit you like a physical blow. Your chest tightened. Your vision blurred at the edges. Foster care. Lena. Alone in some stranger's house because you'd killed her father. Because you'd destroyed the only family she had left.
“Okay,” you heard yourself say. Then you picked up the knife again. Started cutting. Slice. Quarter. Slice. Quarter. The motion automatic. Mindless. Pope was still talking but you couldn't hear him anymore. The sound of his voice faded into white noise, drowned out by the roar in your head.
Lena in a foster home. Sleeping in a strange bed. Crying for her daddy who would never come back. Crying for you, maybe, wondering why you'd abandoned her too. She was six years old. Six. And she'd be alone. Completely alone. Because of you. Because you'd pulled that trigger. Because you'd taken everything from her.
The knife moved faster. Slice. Quarter. Slice. Quarter. Your hands were shaking but you didn't stop. Couldn't stop. If you stopped, you'd have to think. You'd have to feel. And you couldn't afford to feel right now because if you started, you'd never stop screaming.
She'd grow up in the system. Bouncing from home to home. Never knowing stability. Never knowing love. Never knowing that someone had wanted her. That you'd wanted her. That you'd tried so hard to be good enough for her even though you'd killed her father. Even though you were the reason she was alone.
“Bambi-“ Pope's voice, distant. Concerned. You didn't respond. Just kept cutting. The lemon juice stung where your cuticles were ragged from anxious picking. The knife was slippery in your palm. Slice. Quarter. Slice. Your hand slipped.
Pain. Sharp and immediate. But distant. Like it was happening to someone else. You stared down at the cutting board. At the lemons. At the blood now mixing with the juice, spreading across the white flesh of the fruit. Your finger. The knife had gone deep. Blood welled up, dripping onto the counter.
“Jesus-Bambi-“ Craig's voice now. Alarmed. You blinked. Looked up. All four of them were staring at you. Pope had come around the bar. J was halfway out of his chair. Deran was moving toward you, his face pale. “Bambi, stop-“ Pope reached for you but you just looked back down at the cutting board. Picked up another lemon. Raised the knife.
Deran's hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. Hard. Rough. So unlike him. The knife clattered to the counter. “What the fuck are you doing?” His voice was sharp. Scared. You looked at him blankly. Then down at your hand. At the blood now running down your palm, dripping onto the floor. At the deep gash across your index finger.
“I didn't even know,” you said. Your voice was flat. Like you were commenting on the weather. Deran's grip on your wrist tightened. His eyes were wide. Frightened. Not of you. For you.
Pope was there in an instant. He took your hand from Deran, his touch gentle despite the urgency. “We need to get this cleaned up.” His voice was steady but you could hear the fear underneath. The barely controlled panic. He grabbed a clean bar towel and wrapped it around your finger, applying pressure. The white fabric immediately bloomed red.
“She didn't even feel it,” J said quietly from behind the bar. His voice was shaken. Disturbed. “She just kept cutting.” Craig was staring at you like he didn't recognize you. Like you'd become something foreign. Something broken beyond repair. Deran hadn't let go of your other hand, his fingers tight around your wrist like he was afraid you'd disappear if he released you.
“How long has she been like this?” Craig asked, his voice low. Directed at Pope. Not at you. Like you weren't even there. Maybe you weren't. Maybe you'd left your body somewhere around the second week of guilt and never came back. Pope didn't answer. Just kept pressure on your hand, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping.
You looked down at the blood-soaked towel. At Pope's hands holding yours. At the concern radiating from all of them. They were scared. You could see it. Feel it. They'd put you here at the bar so someone could watch you. So you wouldn't be alone. So you wouldn't do something stupid. And you'd just proven them right.
“I need to keep her,” you said suddenly. Your voice cracked. The first real emotion you'd shown since Pope had told you about foster care. “Lena. I need to keep her. I can't-“ Your breath hitched. “I can't let her go into the system. I can't. She'll be alone. She'll think no one wants her. She'll-“
“Okay,” Pope said immediately. His hand came up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. “Okay. We'll figure it out. I promise. We'll figure out how to keep her.” His eyes were intense. Desperate. Trying to pull you back from whatever edge you were teetering on. “But right now, I need you to stay with me. Can you do that?”
You nodded. But you weren't sure if you meant it. Weren't sure if you could. Because all you could think about was Lena. Alone. Scared. Wondering why you'd let her go. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you'd do anything to prevent that. Anything at all. Even if it destroyed what was left of you in the process.
The knock came at two in the afternoon on a Thursday. Three sharp raps that made your stomach drop. You'd been expecting it, the state had called yesterday to confirm the time, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. Pope was sitting on the couch, Lena curled up next to him watching cartoons, completely oblivious to what was about to happen. You stood frozen in the kitchen, your hand still wrapped around the coffee mug you'd been holding for the past twenty minutes.
“I'll get it,” Pope said quietly. His voice was steady but you could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw clenched as he stood. He looked at you once, a long, meaningful look that said everything he couldn't say out loud, then walked to the door. You set down the mug and moved to the couch. Sat down next to Lena and pulled her into your lap. She came willingly, her small body warm and trusting against yours.
The door opened. Two women stood in the hallway. One was older, maybe fifty, with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun. The other was younger, mid-thirties, with kind eyes and a clipboard. They both wore professional smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. “Mr. Cody? I'm Linda Smith from Child Protective Services. This is my colleague, Maria Santos.” The older woman's voice was calm. Practiced. Like she'd done this a thousand times before.
Pope stepped aside. Let them in. They entered the apartment with careful, assessing eyes, taking in the space like they were cataloging evidence. The toys scattered across the floor. The coloring books on the coffee table. The framed photo of you and Lena at the beach that Pope had insisted on hanging in the hallway. Everything that proved this was a home. That Lena was loved here.
“Is this Lena?” Maria asked, her voice soft as she approached the couch. Lena looked up from your lap, her big eyes curious but cautious. She didn't know these women. Didn't understand why they were here. You felt her small hand grip your shirt tighter.
“Yeah,” you managed. Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Lena, baby, these are some friends who want to talk to you.” It was a lie. But you couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't say the words that would shatter her world.
Linda knelt down in front of the couch. Her smile was gentle but you could see the determination underneath. “Hi, Lena. My name is Linda. We're going to take you on a little trip today, okay? Just for a little while.” Her tone was soothing. Practiced. Designed to calm frightened children.
Lena's grip on your shirt tightened. “I don't want to go.” Her voice was small. Scared. She looked up at you with those wide, trusting eyes. “I want to stay here with you and Uncle Pope.”
Your heart shattered. Completely and utterly shattered. But you kept your face calm. Kept your voice steady. “I know, sweetheart. I know you do.” You brushed her hair back from her face, your hand trembling slightly. “But these nice ladies need you to go with them for a little bit. Just until we can figure some things out.”
“But I don't want to.” Lena's voice cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned and buried her face in your chest, her small arms wrapping around you. “Please don't make me go. Please.”
You closed your eyes. Took a breath. When you opened them again, Pope was standing behind the couch, his hand on your shoulder. His grip was tight. Grounding. You could feel the tension radiating from him. The barely controlled rage at watching this happen and being powerless to stop it.
“Lena, look at me.” You gently pulled her back so you could see her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Your own eyes burned but you didn't let yourself cry. Not yet. Not in front of her. “This is just temporary, okay? Just for a little while. And then you're going to come right back here. Back home. I promise.”
“You promise?” Her voice was so small. So desperate for reassurance.
“I promise.” The lie tasted like ash in your mouth. Because you didn't know if you could keep that promise. Didn't know if the state would let her come back. But you said it anyway because she needed to hear it. Because she needed something to hold onto.
Linda stood. Her expression was sympathetic but firm. “We really need to get going. We have a placement ready for her and they're expecting us.” She reached out her hand toward Lena. “Come on, sweetie. Let's go.”
Lena shook her head violently. Clung to you harder. “No. No, I don't want to. Please don't make me.” Her sobs were breaking you. Each one felt like a knife to the chest. You looked up at Pope. His face was a mask of controlled fury. His eyes were dark. Dangerous. You could see him fighting every instinct to throw these women out. To protect Lena. To protect you.
“Baby, you have to go.” Your voice was gentle but firm. You couldn't let her see you fall apart. Couldn't let her know that you were dying inside. “But I need you to be brave for me, okay? Can you be brave?” You wiped the tears from her cheeks with your thumbs. “You're the bravest girl I know. And this is just for a little while. Before you know it, you'll be back here with me and Uncle Pope.”
“You'll come get me?” She was looking at you with so much trust. So much hope. It was unbearable.
“The second I can,” you promised. “The very second. And until then, you're going to be okay. These ladies are going to take good care of you. And you can call me anytime you want. Anytime at all.” You looked up at Maria. “She can call, right?”
Maria nodded. “Of course. We'll make sure she has access to a phone.” Her voice was kind. Genuine. It didn't make this any easier.
You stood, lifting Lena with you. She wrapped her legs around your waist, her face buried in your neck. You could feel her tears soaking through your shirt. Feel her small body shaking with sobs. You walked slowly toward where Linda and Maria were waiting by the door. Each step felt like walking toward an execution.
“I love you so much,” you whispered into her hair. “So, so much. And that's never going to change. No matter where you are. No matter what happens. I love you. Uncle Pope loves you. And we're going to get you back. I promise.” You were repeating yourself. Saying the same things over and over because you didn't know what else to say. Didn't know how to make this okay.
Pope moved to stand beside you. His hand came up to rest on Lena's back. “You're going to be okay, bean,” he said quietly. His voice was rough. Strained. “We're going to fix this. Just hold on for us, alright?” Lena turned her head to look at him. Reached out one small hand toward his face. Pope caught it. Pressed a kiss to her palm. His eyes were wet.
Linda stepped forward. “We really need to go now.” Her tone was apologetic but insistent. She reached for Lena. You felt every muscle in your body resist. Felt yourself wanting to run. To grab Lena and Pope and disappear. But you couldn't. So instead, you slowly, carefully, began to pry Lena's arms from around your neck.
“No-no, please-“ Lena's sobs intensified. She clung harder. “Don't let them take me. Please. I'll be good. I promise I'll be good. Please don't make me go.” Her words were breaking you. Destroying you from the inside out. But you kept your face calm. Kept your voice steady.
“You are good, baby. You're so good. This isn't about you being good or bad. This is just something that has to happen right now.” You finally got her arms loose. Held her out toward Linda. “But it's not forever. It's just for now. And I'm going to see you so soon. So soon.”
Linda took Lena from your arms. The moment she did, you felt like someone had ripped your heart out of your chest. Lena reached back for you, her small hands grasping at air. “No! I want to stay! Please! Please don't let them take me!” Her screams were piercing. Desperate. Maria moved to help Linda, and together they carried Lena toward the door.
You stood frozen. Watching. Your arms felt empty. Wrong. Like they'd been designed specifically to hold her and now they had no purpose. Pope's hand found yours. Squeezed tight. You squeezed back. It was the only thing keeping you standing.
“We'll be in touch about visitation,” Linda said over her shoulder. Her voice was barely audible over Lena's crying. “And we'll send you information about the foster home. You can call to check on her anytime.” Then they were out the door. Moving down the hallway. Lena's cries echoing off the walls. “I want Bambi! I want Uncle Pope! Please! Please bring me back!”
You stood in the doorway. Watched them disappear around the corner. Heard Lena's voice getting fainter. Fainter. Until finally, there was silence. The hallway was empty. They were gone. Lena was gone.
You stood there for a long moment. Staring at nothing. Your mind blank. Numb. Then Pope's hand was on your shoulder, gently turning you around. Guiding you back into the apartment. He closed the door behind you. The click of the lock was deafening in the sudden quiet.
That's when you broke. A sound tore from your throat-raw and animal and completely broken. Your legs gave out. Pope caught you before you hit the floor. Pulled you against his chest as you collapsed into him. The sobs came hard and fast. Violent. Your whole body shook with them.
“She's gone,” you gasped between sobs. “She's gone and she was so scared and I couldn't-I couldn't stop them-“ Your words dissolved into incoherent crying. Pope's arms tightened around you. He sank to the floor, taking you with him. You ended up in his lap, your face buried in his chest, his hand in your hair.
“I know,” he said quietly. His voice was thick. Strained. “I know, baby. I know.” He was rocking you slightly. Back and forth. Like you were the child now. Like he could soothe away the pain. But nothing could soothe this. Nothing could make this okay.
“I promised her,” you sobbed. “I promised her we'd get her back and I don't-I don't know if we can-“ The words came out broken. Fractured. “What if they don't let her come back? What if she thinks we abandoned her? What if-“
“Stop.” Pope's voice was firm. He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red. Wet. But determined. “We're getting her back. I don't care what we have to do. I don't care who we have to fight. We're getting her back.” His hand cupped your face. Wiped away your tears even as new ones fell. “You hear me? This isn't over.”
You nodded. But you couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop seeing Lena's face. Hearing her screams. Feeling the weight of her being ripped from your arms. “She was so scared,” you whispered. “She didn't understand. She thought-she thought we were letting them take her. That we didn't want her anymore.”
“She knows we want her.” Pope's voice was rough. Certain. “She knows. And we're going to prove it. We're going to do whatever it takes to bring her home.” He pulled you back against his chest. Held you tight. “Whatever it takes.”
You cried until you had nothing left. Until your throat was raw and your eyes burned and your whole body ached. Pope held you through all of it. Didn't let go. Didn't tell you to stop. Just held you and let you break apart in his arms. Because he knew. He knew this was destroying you. Knew that losing Lena felt like losing everything you'd fought for.
When the sobs finally subsided into quiet, shaking breaths, you stayed curled against him. The apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. Lena's toys were still scattered across the floor. Her coloring book was still open on the coffee table. Evidence of a life that had just been ripped away.
“We'll call a lawyer tomorrow,” Pope said quietly. His hand was still in your hair. Still grounding you. “We'll figure out what we need to do. What hoops we need to jump through. And we'll do it. All of it.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “She's coming home. I promise you. She's coming home.”
You wanted to believe him. Wanted to hold onto that certainty. But right now, with Lena gone and the apartment silent and your arms empty, it felt impossible. It felt like you'd lost her forever. Like everything you'd done, framing Smurf, killing Baz, destroying yourself with guilt, had been for nothing.
“I can't do this without her,” you whispered. Your voice was hoarse. Broken. “I can't-“
“You're not without her.” Pope's arms tightened around you. “She's still ours. Still part of this family. They just took her for now. But we're getting her back. And until we do, we fight. We don't give up. We don't fall apart. We fight.” His voice was fierce. Determined. “For her. For us. For everything we've built.”
You nodded against his chest. Tried to find that strength. That determination. But all you could feel was the crushing weight of loss. The devastating reality that Lena was gone. That she was scared and alone and you couldn't protect her. Couldn't keep her safe. Couldn't keep your promise.
Pope held you on the floor as the afternoon light faded into evening. As the apartment grew dark around you. Neither of you moved to turn on the lights. Neither of you spoke. You just sat there in the silence. In the emptiness. In the wreckage of everything you'd tried so hard to build.
And somewhere across the city, Lena was crying for you. Wondering why you'd let her go. Wondering if you'd ever come back for her. The thought was unbearable. But it was also the truth. And you had to live with it. Had to figure out how to fix it. Had to find a way to bring her home.
Because the alternative, losing her forever, wasn't something you could survive.
Now that this part is finished, I can finally admit that I intentionally wanted to play into the fact that Baz forgives Pope right before his death in canon. I’ve always thought that, despite everything between them, Baz understood Pope better than most people ever did.
In this story, I don’t think Baz would have wanted Bambi dead. Not because he loved her or even particularly liked her, but because he recognized what she represented. She was the only person who’d ever managed to give Pope something resembling peace. The only person who’d ever gotten him to forgive himself, even a little. Baz knew better than anyone what Pope looked like without that.
I fully believe Baz would’ve had no problem killing almost anyone else if he thought it was necessary. But Bambi was different. Not because she was untouchable, but because hurting her would’ve destroyed Pope in a way Baz understood all too well. And despite all their history, I don’t think that’s something Baz would’ve wanted.
That’s also why he breaks character when he sees the crayons and the coloring book. In that moment, the situation stops being about strategy or loyalty or whatever plan he convinced himself he was carrying out. Suddenly he’s confronted with the reality of who Bambi actually is and the life she’s built. More importantly, he’s reminded of Lena. He sees evidence that Bambi genuinely loves and cares for her, and I think that shakes him.
So when he hesitates, it isn’t really about Bambi. It’s about Pope. It’s about Lena. It’s about realizing that taking Bambi away wouldn’t just hurt them, it would destroy what’s left of the family he claims he’s trying to protect.
summary: For someone who’s spent their entire life expecting loss, happiness can feel just as frightening as heartbreak. As your relationship with Pope deepens, you’re left navigating the uncomfortable reality that the more you love something, the more there is to lose. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: ANGST!!, anxiety, brief panic, reassurance, soft!pope, mentions of jobs, past trauma, bambi needs a hug. word count: 1.1k amalia’s love note: one of my all time favorite chapters ‘shut up my moms calling’ is coming up so so soon. A lot of crazy shit is going to happen in these next chapters I am so excited to share. These little chapters were so fun to write and it was honestly a challenge for myself because I always say it’s impossible for me to write something under 3k words, especially when I was a wattpad fanfic writer for so long. Don’t worry, our following chapters will be long and jam packed with angst per usual. <3 PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
The apartment was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet either. Not the kind that came when Pope was reading in the living room or when Lena was asleep down the hall. This was the wrong kind. The kind that seemed to amplify every thought bouncing around inside your head. The kind that made it impossible to focus on anything except yourself.
You sat curled up on the couch with one of Pope’s sweatshirts pulled over your knees. Your laptop sat open beside you. It had been open for nearly an hour. You hadn’t typed a single word. Every time you tried, your eyes skimmed the words without actually processing them, your attention drifting somewhere else entirely.
To him. Always him. You hated how much of your peace lived inside another person.
It felt dangerous. Maybe because it was.
You’d spent years learning how to survive on your own. Years convincing yourself that independence was safety. If nobody mattered enough, nobody could hurt you. If you didn’t need anyone, you couldn’t lose them. It wasn’t exactly healthy, but it had worked.
Then Pope happened. The thought alone made your chest ache. Because somehow, without you realizing it, he’d become home. Not the apartment. Not Oceanside. Not a place. Him.
You found comfort in his footsteps coming through the door at night. In his hand settling on the small of your back. In the way he always reached for you half-asleep. You felt calmer when he was around. Safer. Like your nervous system finally got permission to rest. And that terrified you.
Because things that made you feel safe could be taken away.
You knew that better than most people.
Your mother had been there until she wasn’t. Your father had technically stayed, but that somehow hurt worse. He’d spent years proving that physically being present and actually loving someone weren’t the same thing. Every person you’d ever trusted seemed to leave eventually, whether they meant to or not.
So what made Pope different?
The question slipped into your head before you could stop it. Immediately your mind latched onto it. Like a dog with a bone.
What made him different?
Nothing.
Everything.
You didn’t know. That was the problem. You rubbed your hands over your face and closed your eyes.
Because logically you knew Pope loved you.
Nobody looked at you the way he did unless they loved you. Nobody memorized your coffee order, your schedule, your favorite snacks, the side of the bed you slept on, and the way your voice changed when you were upset unless they loved you. Nobody spent years proving it over and over again unless they meant it. But anxiety wasn’t logical. It never had been.
Anxiety took good things and twisted them until they looked dangerous.
Your eyes drifted toward the clock. Almost six. They should be home soon.
That thought helped for approximately three seconds.
Then another one followed.
What happens when he isn’t?
You immediately hated yourself. The thought felt cruel. Unfair. But it was there now. Growing.
You stared at the front door. Your stomach twisting tighter.
Pope did dangerous things.
You rarely let yourself think about it. Most days it was easier to pretend. Easier to focus on school and babysitting Lena and normal life than acknowledge the reality of where your money came from. But every now and then the truth slipped through the cracks.
And today seemed determined to be one of those days. What if something happened?
The question arrived so suddenly your chest tightened. What if one day he didn’t come home? What if one day the phone rang?
What if one day you walked into a hospital and-
“No.” You sat up immediately. The word came out louder than expected. The apartment remained silent. You swallowed hard. Because you knew where that road led.
You’d gone down it before.
The more you thought about losing someone, the more real it felt. The more real it felt, the more your brain searched for evidence. Then suddenly you’d convinced yourself a tragedy was inevitable even though nothing had happened at all.
You hated when your mind did this. You hated how convincing it was.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. You looked down at your hands. At the bracelet Pope had given you. At the life the two of you had built together. At all the things you never thought you’d have. The apartment. Stability. Love. A future.
The problem wasn’t that you were unhappy. The problem was that you were happier than you’d ever been. And somewhere deep down, a frightened part of you still couldn’t believe you were allowed to keep it.
You leaned your head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. Maybe that was the real issue. Not losing Pope. Not really. The fear sat deeper than that. Because if he left, or died, or changed his mind, or disappeared, it would confirm something you’d spent years trying not to believe.
That happiness was temporary. That people always left. That eventually everyone realized you weren’t worth staying for. The thought made tears sting your eyes. You wrapped your arms around yourself.
Trying to hold together something that suddenly felt fragile. The worst part was knowing how ridiculous it sounded. Pope wasn’t even gone. He was working. That was it. There was no emergency. No crisis. No reason to panic.
And yet your mind kept circling the same thought over and over and over again until it felt raw. You loved him. You loved him enough that losing him felt unimaginable. And maybe that was what scared you most.
Not that he would leave. But that if he did, you weren’t entirely sure who you’d be afterward.
The front door burst open so hard it rattled the frame. Immediately the apartment filled with noise.
Craig was talking before he’d even made it through the doorway. Deran was telling him to shut up. J looked annoyed by both of them. The energy rolled into the apartment ahead of them, loud and chaotic and alive. The kind of post-job high that always seemed to follow the boys home. Adrenaline still lingering in their systems. Relief disguised as arrogance.
You sat up straighter on the couch immediately. Smiling. Trying.
Pope noticed. He noticed before he even took his boots off. His eyes found you instantly. They always did.
You smiled when he looked at you. The same smile you’d been practicing in the mirror of your own mind for the past hour. The one that said everything was fine. The one that usually worked on everyone else.
Not him. Never him.
“You should’ve seen Craig.” Deran dropped onto the couch beside you, laughing. You winced slightly as his shoulder bumped yours on the way down. Not because you didn’t want Deran there. He was your best friend. One of your favorite people in the world. But tonight, you wanted Pope. You wanted his arms around you. His hand in yours. The reassurance of knowing he was here. “This idiot almost got-“
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
The argument immediately started again. Craig looked offended. Deran looked entertained. J looked like he regretted ever meeting either of them.
Normally you would’ve joined in. Normally you’d be laughing. Throwing your own comments into the mix. Instead you sat quietly. Twisting the sleeve of Pope’s sweatshirt around your fingers.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
Pope watched you do it. The fabric was practically wrapped around your hand at this point. You didn’t even realize it. Your knee bounced. Your fingers fidgeted. Your eyes kept drifting toward the front door.
Toward him. Making sure he was actually there. Still there. Still okay. Still yours.
Pope’s stomach sank. The boys kept talking. Oblivious. Pope wasn’t listening anymore. Not really. His entire attention had narrowed to you.
To the way your smile never quite reached your eyes. To the way your shoulders seemed tight. To the way your hands wouldn’t stop moving.
Something was wrong. Not anger. Not stress from school. Something else. Something deeper. He knew the difference. He’d spent a year learning it.
“Alright.” The word cut through the room. Everyone looked at him. Including you.
Pope stood. “Get out.”
Craig blinked. “What?”
“Out.”
Deran laughed.
“Oh.” J immediately looked toward you. Then toward Pope. Understanding.
Craig was still confused. “What do you mean out?”
“Out.”
Craig frowned. “We literally just got here. Pope stared at him. Craig immediately stood up. “Okay.”
Deran burst out laughing. “You’re such a little bitch.”
“You deal with him then.”
“No thanks.”
J was already heading for the door. Smartest person in the room. As usual. Within thirty seconds all three of them were gone.
The front door shut behind them. Silence settled over the apartment. Instantly. Pope waited.
You stared down at your hands. Still twisting the sweatshirt. Still pulling at the fabric. Still unable to stop. For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Pope crossed the room. Slowly. Carefully. Like you were something fragile. He sat beside you. You didn’t flinch this time, you melted into his touch.
Close enough that your knees touched “Sweetheart.”
The word nearly broke you. You swallowed hard. “It’s nothing, you really didn’t need to make them leave.”
Pope sighed. The kind of sigh that said he wasn’t buying it for a second. “Okay.”
You looked up. “What?”
“If it’s nothing.” His hand settled over yours. Stopping the nervous twisting immediately “Then tell me.”
Your throat tightened. Because suddenly it felt stupid. Embarrassing. Ridiculous.
All those thoughts that had felt so overwhelming an hour ago suddenly sounded childish when you imagined saying them out loud.
You looked away. Pope waited. Patient. As always. You hated that he was patient. It made everything harder. “What if one day you don’t come home?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Silence. Immediately your face burned. “Oh my God.” You covered your eyes. “Forget I said that.”
Pope didn’t move. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t dismiss it. Instead his thumb brushed across your knuckles. Gentle. Grounding. “You’ve been thinking.” You groaned. A miserable sound. Pope nodded. “Too much.”
“Yes.” Way too much. You finally looked at him. Your eyes stinging “I know it’s stupid.”
His expression softened instantly. “No.”
You laughed weakly. “It really is.”
Pope reached for you. Without hesitation. Without thought. Like breathing. He pulled you into his lap. Your body immediately went. No resistance. No argument. Just instinct. Your face buried itself against his neck. Pope wrapped both arms around you. Holding you tight. Holding you still. Holding you together. “You wanna know something?” His voice was quiet. You nodded against his shoulder. Pope kissed the top of your head. Then another. Then another. Like he couldn’t help himself. “I’m always gonna come back to you.”
The tears arrived immediately. You squeezed your eyes shut. Because that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair at all. Pope felt your arms tighten around him. Felt you practically climbing into his skin. Like if you held on tight enough nothing bad could ever happen. His heart broke a little. Because he knew exactly where this was coming from. The fear. The waiting. The expectation that everyone eventually left. “You hear me?” You nodded again. But it wasn’t enough. Pope gently grabbed your chin. Making you look at him. His hazel eyes were steady. Certain. Unshakable. “I’m always coming home.” The conviction in his voice made your chest ache. Because he believed it. Completely. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like there wasn’t a universe where he willingly left you behind. “I don’t care if we’re eighty.” His thumb brushed away a tear. “I don’t care if i’m coming home to you yelling at me.” Another tear. “I don’t care if we’re broke.” Another. “I don’t care if we have to leave to another state so you can live out your dreams of being a doctor and I barely see you because you’re always working.” That got a watery laugh. Exactly what he’d wanted. Pope smiled softly. “I’m coming home.”
You stared at him. Trying desperately to believe him. Trying desperately to let yourself have this. This love. This safety. This person. Pope saw it happening. The war inside your head. The doubt. The fear.
The little voice telling you not to trust good things. So he did what he always did. He held you tighter. Pressed his forehead against yours. And stayed. Because sometimes there wasn’t anything he could say. Sometimes the only way to fight the monsters in your head was to sit beside you until they got tired and left. And Pope had never minded staying. Not when it came to you.
summary: For the first time in your life, Craig Cody is speechless. Beneath the jokes and bad decisions is a man standing at a crossroads, trying to figure out whether he’s capable of becoming someone different than the people who raised him. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: mentions of pregnancy (not reader), reader gives craig some good advice, fluff, mentions of bad parenting/parents, not much but mentions of pope as a dad. word count: 2k amalia’s love note: twas time for some craig x bambi content, they are so mwahhhhhhh. this is literally one of fav things i’ve written for this story just because we can see bambi’s influence starting to make an impact on the boys. of course not baz tho fuck him. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
You knew something was wrong the second Craig walked into the apartment. Not because he looked hurt. Not because he was bleeding. Not because he was high or drunk or running from some problem he’d helped create. It was the look on his face that stopped you cold. Craig Cody looked terrified. Not nervous. Not stressed. Terrified. The kind of fear that settled deep in a person’s bones and made them look like they were standing at the edge of a cliff.
You were sitting at the kitchen island surrounded by flashcards and anatomy notes when he came through the door. He didn’t even acknowledge you at first. He just started pacing. Back and forth across the apartment. Running both hands through his hair. Turning around. Pacing again. The movement felt frantic. Like if he stopped moving for even a second, whatever was chasing him would catch up.
“Craig.” He didn’t answer. You waited “Craig.”
His head snapped up this time. He looked at you for half a second before looking away again. The expression on his face made your stomach twist. You’d seen Craig angry. You’d seen him high. You’d seen him reckless. You’d never seen him look like this.
“What happened?” you asked carefully.
Craig laughed once. A short, humorless sound. Then he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and stared at the floor. For a moment, you thought he might not answer at all. Then he leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with both hands. “Renn’s pregnant.”
The apartment went silent. You blinked.
Craig stayed exactly where he was. Hands covering his face. Shoulders tense. Like he was waiting for the ceiling to collapse on top of him.
Slowly, you set your pen down. “Okay.”
Craig immediately looked up. “Okay?” His voice cracked.
You could hear the panic underneath it now. The desperation. The disbelief. Like he couldn’t understand how you weren’t matching his energy.
“Craig.”
“No, seriously.” He stood again immediately. The chair nearly tipping backward. “What the fuck do you mean okay? Bambi, I’m gonna be somebody’s dad.” The words sounded ridiculous coming from him. Not because he couldn’t be one. Because he genuinely couldn’t picture it. You watched him start pacing again. “My dad was a piece of shit. Smurf was…” He laughed bitterly. “Smurf. Pope practically raised me half the time and look how that turned out. Deran barely survived this family. J’s fucked up. I’m fucked up.”
“Craig.”
“What if I screw this kid up?”
His voice broke completely this time. The apartment fell quiet. Because suddenly this wasn’t about Renn. Or the baby. Or even the pregnancy.
This was about Craig standing face to face with every bad thing that had ever happened to him and realizing he might pass it on.
You stood slowly. Crossed the room. Craig looked at you helplessly. Like he was waiting for you to confirm his worst fear. Instead, you grabbed his shoulders. “Look at me.”
He did. Barely. “You are not your parents.”
Craig immediately shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You do not.”
“Craig.” Your voice softened. “Do you know what the difference is between you and them?” He looked away. You waited until he met your eyes again. “The fact that you’re terrified.” The room went still. You could practically see him trying to understand. You continued. “Bad parents don’t sit awake at night worrying about whether they’re going to hurt their kids.” Your grip tightened slightly. “Bad parents don’t panic because they’re scared they’ll fail. Bad parents don’t care enough to be scared.”
Craig swallowed hard. His eyes were glassy now. You’d never tell anyone that. Especially not Pope. But they were. “What if I don’t know what to do?”
The question sounded small. Younger than him. For the first time since he’d arrived, he didn’t sound like Craig Cody. He sounded like a scared kid.
You smiled sadly. “Nobody knows what they’re doing.”
“What?”
“Craig, half the world is making it up as they go.” That actually got a laugh out of him. Small. But real. You took advantage of it immediately. “You’re gonna screw up.”
Craig looked horrified. “What?”
“You are.” You shrugged. “So am I if I ever have kids.”
“That’s not helping.”
“It should.” Craig rolled his eyes. You smiled.“Because screwing up doesn’t make you a bad parent.” The smile slowly disappeared. Your voice becoming more serious. “But some things do.”
Craig immediately went quiet. The shift in your tone wasn’t lost on him. “What things?”
You took a breath. Because this was the part he needed to hear. Not the comforting part. The truth. “The drugs.” Craig looked down. “The drinking.” Silence. “The jobs.” More silence. “The disappearing for days at a time.” You watched every word land. One after another. Heavy. Necessary. “You don’t get to put yourself first anymore.” Craig swallowed. Hard. “You don’t get to wake up one morning and decide to disappear because you’re bored. You don’t get to spend money recklessly. You don’t get to take risks because they sound fun.”
His jaw tightened. Not because he was angry. Because he knew you were right “That kid becomes your first priority.” The apartment fell silent again. You thought about Lena. About all the ways children depended on adults. About how fragile they were. How much trust they placed in people who hadn’t earned it yet. “You are somebody’s safe place now.” The words seemed to hit him harder than everything else. His eyes dropped immediately. “You understand?”
Craig nodded. Slowly. You continued anyway.
“Your kid isn’t gonna care how much money you made.” Another nod. “They’re not gonna care about jobs.” Another. “They’re gonna care whether you showed up.” Craig closed his eyes. You knew he’d spent his entire life wishing somebody had shown up for him. “You gotta be there.”
The room stayed quiet for a long time. Eventually Craig sat back down. Not pacing anymore. Not spiraling. Just thinking. Really thinking.
When he finally spoke, his voice was much quieter. “I can do that?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
Craig looked up. Still scared. Still overwhelmed. Still absolutely freaking out. But there was something else there now too. Determination. “I can do that.” This time it sounded less like a question. And more like a promise. “Do you want kids?”
You looked up. “What?”
Craig shrugged awkwardly. The question clearly hadn’t sounded weird in his head “You and Pope.”
He gestured vaguely. “You guys ever talk about it?”
A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it. More than he’d probably realize. More than Pope would ever admit to anyone. You glanced down at your hand. Then back at Craig. “Yeah.”
Craig blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The smile softened. “I want kids.” The admission felt strange out loud. Not because it was a secret. Because it was something you’d wanted for so long. Something you’d almost been afraid to want.
Craig watched you carefully. “You do?”
You nodded. “Eventually.” A small laugh escaped you. “Not right now. Med school is currently trying to kill me.” That got a snort out of him. You smiled. “But someday.” The apartment grew quiet again. You looked toward the window. Thoughtful. “I think I’ve always wanted them.”
Craig frowned slightly. “You’ve never mentioned that.”
You shrugged. “I don’t know.” Your eyes drifted toward the kitchen. Toward the life you’d somehow built here. “I think when your childhood sucks, you spend a lot of time imagining how you’d do things differently.” The words came out softer than you’d intended. Craig immediately understood. You saw it in his face. The understanding. The shared experience. “My dad wasn’t exactly father of the year.”
Craig laughed. “Understatement.”
You pointed at him. “You have no room to talk.” You looked down at your hands. “My mom wasn’t really a mom either.”
The apartment became quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just honest. You thought about all the years spent feeling unwanted. Forgotten. Secondary. The years spent wondering why everyone else seemed so easy to love. “I spent a lot of my life feeling like there was something wrong with me.” Craig’s expression softened. You continued before he could interrupt. “When I was younger, I thought maybe if I was smarter they’d love me.” You laughed softly. “Then I thought maybe if I was quieter.” Another laugh. “Then prettier.” The smile faded. “Then eventually I realized the problem wasn’t me.” Craig stared. Because he’d never heard you talk about yourself like this before. Most people didn’t. You rarely let them. The apartment felt unusually vulnerable all of a sudden. You swallowed “That doesn’t stop the fear though.”
Craig frowned. “What fear?”
You looked at him. The answer felt obvious “What if I’m like them?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Honest. Raw. Real.
Craig immediately shook his head. “What?”
You laughed. “I’m serious.”
“No.”
“Craig.” He looked genuinely offended now. Like the very idea was ridiculous. You smiled despite yourself. “I worry about it.” Craig stared. You continued. “Sometimes I wonder if I’d know what to do.” Your voice softened. “If I’d be patient enough.” You looked down. “If I’d mess something up without realizing it.” The confession hung between you.
Craig looked stunned. Because in his mind you were probably the most put-together person he’d ever met. The responsible one. The smart one. The one everyone came to when things went wrong. And yet here you were admitting that you had the same fears he did. The realization seemed to settle something inside him. “You really think about that stuff?”
You laughed. “All the time.”
Craig shook his head slowly. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I just figured…” He trailed off.
You smiled. “Figured what?”
“I don’t know.” He gestured toward you. “That you had your shit together.”
That made you laugh so hard you nearly choked. “Craig.”
“I’m serious.”
“You think I have my shit together?”
“You do.” The look on his face was so sincere it actually warmed your chest. You smiled.
“Trust me.” You pointed toward your notes “I’m one failed exam away from a breakdown at all times.”
Craig laughed. The tension in the room easing further. Then his expression shifted. Curious. “What about Pope?”
The smile returned immediately. Effortlessly. Without permission. Without warning.
Craig noticed. Of course he did. “You didn’t even think about that.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Shut up.”
Craig pointed dramatically. “Look at your face.”
You threw a flashcard at him. He caught it. Laughing. You shook your head. But the smile never left. “He’s gonna be a good dad.” There wasn’t even a second of hesitation. Not one. Craig noticed that too. The certainty. The confidence. The complete lack of doubt.
“What makes you so sure?”
You looked down at the table. Smiling to yourself. Because honestly? There were too many reasons to count. “He already is.”
Craig frowned. “What?”
You leaned back in your chair. Thinking about Lena. About the way Pope checked under her bed for monsters. The way he remembered her favorite snacks. The way he always carried bandaids because she’d once cried over a paper cut. The way he’d drop everything if she needed him. “He loves people completely.” Your voice softened “Sometimes too much.”
Craig laughed quietly. Yeah. That sounded like Pope.
“He’d do anything for somebody he loves.” You smiled. “And kids need that.”
Your eyes drifted toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom where Lena had probably colored on every available surface. “He’d be the kind of dad who never misses a soccer game.”
Craig barked out a laugh. “Pope at soccer.”
“I know.” You laughed too. “But he’d be there.” The smile softened again. “He’d learn all the rules.”
Craig looked horrified. “Oh my God he would.”
“He absolutely would.” The two of you sat there laughing for a moment.
Then you quietly added: “He’d spend every day trying to give them the childhood he never had.”
The room fell silent. Because you both knew that was the real answer. Not soccer. Not games. Not snacks. Love. Pope had spent his entire life wanting somebody to choose him. To protect him. To stay. There was no world where he’d let his child wonder whether they were loved.
Craig looked down at the counter. Thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded much lighter than before. “I think I’d like that.”
You smiled. “What?”
“A kid.” The panic wasn’t gone. But it wasn’t winning anymore. And for the first time all afternoon, when Craig smiled, it looked less like fear and more like hope.
summary: Jealousy isn’t your best look. According to Pope, though, it’s definitely your hottest. A harmless night out quickly turns into a game neither of you has any interest in losing. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: jealous!bambi, craig catches strays per usual, smut!! (unprotected piv, semi-public - derans office yikes, creampie), insecure!bambi, soft!pope, bambi needs reassurance, pope is so in love with her, random oc character bc I didn’t feel like adding amy in. word count: 2.8k (finally i wrote something small) amalia’s love note: this was SO fun!! switching the roles around in their relationship is so fun to me, also the idea of bambi also sometimes needing reassurance was such a great little thing to write. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
The bar was loud enough that conversations blended together into a steady hum. Music played from the speakers overhead. Glasses clinked. People laughed. The familiar chaos of one of Deran's busy nights wrapped around all of you while you occupied the far end of the bar like you owned the place.
Which, realistically, you kind of did. Or at least that's what Deran liked to tell people. You were practically family now. The realization still caught you off guard sometimes.
A year ago you would've been terrified sitting here. Now you were curled against Pope like it was second nature. One of your legs was draped over his. Your arm looped through his. His hand rested comfortably against your thigh while he nursed a beer and listened to Craig complain about something that probably wasn't important.
Pope loved it. Loved every second of it. He'd never say it out loud. But you knew.
You knew from the way he immediately reached for you whenever you stood up. The way he always seemed calmer when he could touch you. The way his hand absentmindedly traced circles against your skin whenever you sat together. The boys had long since stopped teasing him about it.
Mostly because they all secretly thought it was cute. Even J. Though he'd rather die than admit it.
“That's bullshit.” Craig pointed accusingly across the bar.
You immediately perked up.l “What?”
“That guy is cheating.”
You followed his gaze. The dartboard. A random customer. You squinted. “No he's not.”
“He totally is.”
“No.”
Craig looked offended. “I've been playing darts since before you were born.”
You rolled your eyes. “You're like thirty.”
“Exactly.”
“That didn't help your argument.” Deran barked out a laugh from behind the bar.
Craig looked personally victimized. You slid off your stool. “Move.” you said waving your hand
“What?”
“Move.” Craig narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Then immediately surrendered his spot. Because despite being significantly larger than you, Craig almost always folded whenever you got bossy. The boys found it hilarious. You grabbed one of the darts and pointed dramatically. “Observe.”
Pope watched you go. The same way he always did. Like his eyes naturally followed wherever you moved. You didn't notice.
You never did. But everyone else noticed. J smirked into his beer. Pope ignored him. For the next fifteen minutes you became fully invested in proving Craig wrong.
You were laughing. Arguing. Threatening to ban him from future dart competitions. Craig was dramatically accusing you of corruption.
Deran was encouraging the behavior. J looked entertained. It was enough distraction that you didn't notice Pope disappear.
It wasn't unusual for him to move around the bar. Glare at people. Check something outside. Grab another drink. You barely thought about it. Until Deran suddenly froze. Mid-conversation. Mid-sip.
“Holy shit.” Craig looked over.
“What?” Deran blinked. Then laughed. “No fucking way.”
Your eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
Deran pointed toward the opposite end of the bar. “Is that Sarah?”
The name meant absolutely nothing to you. At first. You turned anyway. Then your stomach dropped. Pope stood near the far corner of the bar. Talking to a woman. Blonde. Pretty. Confident. The kind of woman who looked comfortable everywhere she went.
You watched as she laughed at something he said. Then Pope laughed too. Actually laughed. Not the small uninterested smiles he usually gave people. A genuine laugh.
Your stomach twisted. You hated it immediately. “What?”
Craig followed your gaze. “Oh.”
“Oh?”you repeated.
Craig wisely shut his mouth. Which somehow made everything worse. You stared harder. Pope looked... relaxed. That was the thing that bothered you. Not that he was talking to another woman.
The problem was how easy he looked. How comfortable. How familiar. Like they already knew each other. Like they had history. You watched Sarah lightly touch his arm while she spoke.
“Shut up Craig!” You were. You absolutely were. The worst part? They knew it. You glanced toward J. Sure enough. The asshole was smirking. “You guys are insufferable.”
Craig laughed. “Pope fake dated her for a job years ago.”
Your head snapped around. “What?”
“Fake dated.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Your stomach somehow twisted harder. “Why?”
“Long story.”
You looked back toward Pope. Sarah said something that made him smile again. The sight irritated you far more than it should have. Because suddenly all you could think was: I've never heard this story.
Your grip tightened around your beer bottle. Deran was practically vibrating with excitement now. “Oh this is fun.”
“Shut up.”
“You should see your face.”
“I hate all of you.” You tried to focus on the dartboard. On the game. On literally anything except Pope and Sarah. But your eyes kept drifting back. Watching. Cataloging every smile. Every laugh.
“How long are they gonna talk?” Your voice came out sharper than intended.
Craig and Deran exchanged a look. “Bambi-“ Deran started carefully.
“I'm fine.” You weren't fine. You watched Sarah lean in closer. Watched her say something that made Pope's expression soften. Watched him nod. Respond. Look genuinely engaged. And something dark and possessive coiled in your chest. “I need another drink.” You slid off your stool again.
Deran immediately moved to pour you one. “Maybe you should-“
“I'm fine.” Your voice was clipped. Cold.
Deran shut his mouth. Poured the drink. Slid it across the bar without another word.
Craig shifted uncomfortably beside you. “You know Pope's crazy about you, right?” His voice was careful.
You took a long drink. “I know.”
“Then why-“
“I said I'm fine, Craig.” The sharpness in your tone made him flinch. Made both of them exchange another worried glance.
Because this wasn't like you. You were warm. Soft. The feminine energy that kept them all grounded. And right now you were anything but. You were cold. Withdrawn. Hostile.
They didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know how to fix it. So they just watched. Nervous. Uncertain. Like pack animals who'd lost their center.
“Maybe we should-“ J started.
“Don't.” You cut him off. Took another drink. Your eyes never left Pope and Sarah. They were still talking. Still laughing.
And then Sarah said something. You could barely hear it from across the bar. But you saw Pope's reaction. Saw him smile. Saw him respond. And then you heard it. “-always were stubborn, Andrew.-“ Andrew. She called him Andrew. Your hand tightened around your glass. Hard enough that your knuckles went white.
“Bambi-“ Deran started.
“I'm fine.” But your voice was ice. Your expression was stone. And the boys knew. Knew you were anything but fine. You watched Sarah touch Pope's arm again. Watched her lean in. Watched her say something else. “Andrew, you haven't changed a bit.” Like she had any right. Like it was normal. The jealousy was irrational. You knew that. Pope was yours. Completely. Utterly. Without question. But watching some woman from his past touch him. Laugh with him. Call him by his actual name.
“How long did they date?” Your voice was carefully neutral.
Craig shifted. “They didn't really. It was fake. for Pope. For a job.”
“How long?”
“Like... three weeks? Maybe a month?”
A month. A month of her calling him Andrew. A month of her touching him. A month of her looking at him like that. Your jaw clenched. “Bambi, it didn't mean anything,” Deran tried.
“Then why is he smiling like that?” The words came out sharper than intended. Harsher. The boys fell silent. Because they didn't have an answer. Couldn't explain why Pope looked so comfortable.
You took another drink. Watched Sarah laugh at something Pope said. “I remember when you used to make me laugh like that, Andrew.” Watched him laugh back. And felt something inside you crack.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Sarah glanced at her phone. Said something about needing to leave. Gave Pope a hug that lasted too long. “It was so good seeing you, Andrew. We should catch up properly sometime.”
Pope's response was noncommittal. Polite but not encouraging. Sarah didn't seem to notice. She waved. Smiled. And finally left. The second she was out the door, you rolled your eyes. Hard. Stood up. And walked away without saying a single word to Pope. “Sweetheart-“ Pope's voice behind you. Confused. Concerned. You ignored him. Walked straight toward the back of the bar.
You pushed open the office door. Stepped inside. Pope was right behind you. “What the hell was that?” His voice was genuinely confused. Like he had no idea what he'd done wrong.
You spun around. “What was that?” Your voice was sharp. Cutting. “That was me watching some woman hang all over my boyfriend while calling him Andrew.”
Pope blinked. “She wasn't hanging on me. We were just talking.”
“She touched your arm. Multiple times. She called you Andrew. Over and over.” Each word came out harder than the last. “And you just let her.”
You took a step toward him. “Nobody calls you Andrew. Nobody except me.”
Understanding dawned in Pope's eyes. “You're jealous.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And it made you want to hit him.
“Of course I'm jealous!” Your voice rose. “Some woman I've never heard of shows up and acts like she knows you. Like she has history with you. Like she has any right to touch you.” You were in his space now. Close enough to feel his breath. “And you just let her.”
“I didn't-“ Pope started.
You cut him off. “You laughed with her. You smiled at her. You looked comfortable.” Your hands fisted in his shirt. “You looked like you were having fun. Like you’d forgotten about me.” The admission hurt.
Pope's expression softened. “Sweetheart-“ His hands came up to cup your face. But you were already breaking. Already feeling the weight of everything crash down.
“I've lost everything,” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “My sense of safety. My peace.” You looked up at him. “The only thing I have left is you.” Tears burned behind your eyes. “And watching some woman touch you like she has a right to-“
Pope's hands tightened on your face. “She doesn't know me.” His voice was firm. Final. “Not like you do. Not even close.” He pulled you closer. “It was a job. I pretended to be into her for a few weeks. That's it, it didn’t matter .”
“But she thinks it did.” You could hear the insecurity in your own voice. Hated it. “She looked at you like-like she missed you. Like she wanted-“ You couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say out loud what you'd seen in Sarah's eyes.
Pope kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Cutting off your words. Cutting off your thoughts. His mouth was insistent. Demanding. Claiming. You melted into it. Into him. Because this was what you needed. This certainty. This connection.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. Intense. “I don't care what she wants.” His voice was low. Rough. “I don't care what she thinks. I don't care about her at all.” His forehead pressed against yours. "The only person I care about is you."
“I need you,” you whispered. The words tumbled out. Raw. Honest. “I need to feel-I need to know-“ You couldn't articulate it. Couldn't explain the desperate need clawing at your chest. The need to be claimed. Connected. Reassured.
Pope understood. He always understood. His hands slid down to your hips. Gripped hard. “I've got you.” His voice was rough. Commanding. “I've got you, sweetheart.” He walked you backward until your back hit the desk.
His mouth found yours again. Deeper this time. Slower. Taking his time. Taking control. You clung to him. Your hands in his hair. On his shoulders. Needing to touch him. Needing to feel him.
Pope's hands moved to your jeans. Unbuttoned them. Slid them down your hips along with your underwear. His movements were deliberate. Controlled. Completely in charge. You kicked them off. Let him strip you. Let him take what he wanted.
“Up,” he commanded. His hands gripped your hips. Lifted you onto the desk. You went willingly. Eagerly. Spreading your legs to make room for him. Pope stepped between them. His hands running up your thighs. Possessive. Claiming.
“You're mine,” he said quietly. His eyes locked on yours. “Nobody else. Not Sarah. Not anyone.” His hand slid higher. Teasing. “Just you.” You nodded. Unable to speak. Unable to do anything but feel. Pope's fingers found you. Slid through your wetness. You gasped. Your head falling back. “Eyes on me,” he commanded. Your eyes snapped to his. Held. “That's it. Stay with me.”
His fingers circled. Pressed. Worked you with practiced ease. He knew your body. Knew exactly what you needed. Knew how to take you apart. You whimpered. Your hips rolling against his hand. Seeking more. Needing more.
“Please,” you whispered.
Pope's eyes darkened. “Please what?” His voice was rough. Teasing. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” you breathed. “I need you. Inside me. Please.”
Pope pulled his hand away. You whined at the loss. But then he was unbuttoning his jeans. Freeing himself. Positioning himself at your entrance. His eyes never left yours. “You're mine,” he said again. Firm. Final.
Then he pushed inside. Slow. Deliberate. Filling you completely. You cried out. Your hands gripping his shoulders. Your body stretching to accommodate him. Pope groaned. His forehead pressed against yours. “Fuck. You feel so good.”
He started moving. Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Each thrust deliberate. Purposeful. You clung to him. Your legs wrapping around his waist. Pulling him closer. Deeper. Needing him as close as possible.
“Nobody else gets this,” Pope said roughly. His pace increasing. “Nobody else gets to touch you. Have you. Love you.” Each word punctuated by a thrust. “Just me.”
“Just you,” you echoed. Your voice breaking. “Only you.”
Pope's hand slid into your hair. Gripped. Pulled your head back. Exposing your throat. His mouth found your neck. Kissing. Biting. Marking. Claiming you in every way possible. You moaned. Your body arching into him. Taking everything he gave.
“That's it,” he murmured against your skin. “Take it. Take all of me.” His rhythm was relentless now. Hard. Deep. Exactly what you needed. You could feel your orgasm building. Coiling tight in your belly.
“Andrew-“ His name fell from your lips. Desperate. Pleading. Pope groaned. His grip tightening. “Say it again.”
“Andrew,” you gasped. “Please-I'm so close-“
“I know.” His hand slid between your bodies. Found your clit. Circled. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”
The combination of his words and his touch pushed you over. Your orgasm crashed through you. Hard. Overwhelming. You cried out. Your body clenching around him. Pope groaned. His rhythm faltering. Then he was coming too. Spilling inside you. Marking you. Claiming you.
You collapsed against him. Both of you breathing hard. Sweating. Trembling. Pope's arms wrapped around you immediately. Holding you close. His face buried in your neck. Grounding you. Anchoring you.
“I'm yours,” he said quietly. His voice rough but certain. “Completely. Nobody else even comes close.” His hand stroked your hair. Soothing. Comforting. “And you're mine. Always.”
You nodded against his shoulder. Unable to speak. Unable to do anything but hold him. Feel him. Let his presence chase away the fear and insecurity. Pope pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand cupped your face. “Sarah doesn't matter,” he said firmly. “What we had-if you can even call it that-was nothing.” His thumb brushed across your cheek. “You're everything. You're the only one who matters.” Tears slipped down your cheeks. Not from sadness. From relief. From the overwhelming certainty in his voice.
“I love you,”you whispered.
Pope's expression softened. “I love you too.” He kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Different from before. “And I'm not going anywhere. No matter what.” He helped you clean up. Helped you get dressed. His movements gentle. Caring. Taking care of you the way he always did. When you were both presentable, he pulled you back into his arms. Held you close. “We're going to be okay,” he said quietly. “I don't know how yet. But we will.” You nodded against his chest. Believing him. Because if anyone could make it happen, it was Pope.
“Together,” you whispered.
Pope's arms tightened. “Together.” And for the first time since Smurf went away you felt a flicker of hope. Because you had Pope. And Pope had you. And together, you could survive anything.
summary: Smurf draws a line in the sand, and suddenly everything you love is at risk. Forced into an impossible choice, you tell a lie that could cost you everything to protect the person who matters most. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: angst!!, mentions of the robberies, baz is a bad dad and pope and bambi are literally lena’s parents, SMURF!!!, lying, tampering with evidence, mentions of murder, bambi is lowkey a baddie, J comes through fr, smut! (wall sex? idfk, unprotected piv, hand over mouth gang, slight fingering), possessive!pope, angry!pope word count: 7.7k amalia’s love note: k bye for now lol, not a hiatus but i’ve had some days off and put in the WORK for this series so i’ll be back soon!! i love you all thank you for supporting, your comments and reposts mean so much to me. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Smurf knew it was Pope before the reporter even finished speaking. She sat comfortably in her living room with a glass of red wine balanced against her knee while footage of the six robberies played across the television screen. Different locations. Different witnesses. Different timestamps. The news anchors sounded confused, shuffling through theories and speculation as if they were trying to solve a puzzle.
Smurf wasn’t.
A slow smile spread across her face as she watched. Not because she was proud. Because she recognized the pattern. The determination. The recklessness. The complete inability to think about consequences when someone he loved was involved. She’d spent decades studying Pope. Understanding Pope. Shaping Pope. She knew him better than anyone.
Or at least she used to.
Only Pope would do something that insane. Only Pope would look at a problem and decide the solution was to bulldoze straight through it. Most people would’ve looked for another way. Pope had never been most people. He loved with the same intensity he fought, completely and without hesitation. If he thought someone needed saving, he’d tear the world apart to do it.
The smile disappeared almost immediately. Because another realization settled over her. He hadn’t brought her a dime.
By the time Baz arrived later that evening, Smurf was already angry.
“It’s obvious that it was Pope,” she said, not bothering to look away from the television. “He did it for that bitch.”
Baz leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “We’re sure the boys didn’t help him?”
Smurf laughed. A short, humorless sound “Please.” She gestured toward the television with her wine glass. “You think Craig has the patience for that?”
Baz smirked. “So Pope.”
The room fell silent.
Smurf swirled the wine around her glass and stared at the screen without really seeing it. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere. To the last few weeks. To the changes she’d been trying very hard not to acknowledge. The way Pope barely came by anymore. The way he spent every night at the apartment. The way he’d stopped asking for her advice. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon.
Worst of all, the way the other boys had started gravitating toward you too. Deran sought you out when he was angry. Craig dropped by whenever he wanted to vent. Even J watched you more closely than he watched most people. Something cold and ugly settled in Smurf’s chest. She’d spent decades building that family. Decades making sure every road eventually led back to her. Every argument. Every celebration. Every problem. Every success.
Eventually they always came home. Now some weak little girl had walked into their lives and somehow shifted the entire balance. “He would’ve brought it to me.”
Baz frowned. “What?”
“The old Pope.” Smurf’s eyes narrowed. “He would’ve brought the money to me.” The realization genuinely bothered her. Not because of the money itself. Money came and went. Money could always be replaced. Trust couldn’t.
Once upon a time Pope would’ve handed her everything without question. Money. Loyalty. Obedience. Information. All of it. She never even had to ask. It belonged to her because he belonged to her. Now he was giving those things to someone else. And Smurf hated that more than she hated you.
The next afternoon she let herself into the apartment. It wasn’t difficult. Smurf had keys to places she’d never even been invited. The apartment was empty. Pope and you were both gone. She locked the door behind her and stood quietly in the middle of the living room. The place practically screamed you. Textbooks stacked neatly on the coffee table. Color-coded notes spread across the kitchen island. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair. Coffee mugs sitting in the sink. A blanket folded carefully over the couch.
The apartment had once felt like Pope. Sparse. Cold. Temporary. Now it looked lived in. Warm. Loved. Like a home. Smurf hated it. She hated the evidence of you everywhere she looked. Hated the proof that Pope had allowed somebody into spaces he’d spent his entire life keeping closed.
She moved through the apartment methodically. Opening drawers. Checking closets. Looking beneath the bed. Searching cabinets. Pulling books from shelves. Examining every possible hiding place she could think of. Nothing. Not a single dollar. Her irritation slowly turned into genuine frustration. By the second hour, the apartment looked like a tornado had hit it. Closets emptied onto the floor. Dressers pulled apart. The mattress flipped. Every hiding place searched twice. Still nothing.
“Where is it?” Smurf stood in the middle of the bedroom breathing hard. The absence of the money bothered her more than the money itself. Because it meant Pope had hidden it somewhere she couldn’t find. Somewhere she hadn’t taught him. Somewhere beyond her reach. That realization felt dangerous.
Later that night she sat across from Baz at the kitchen table. “He moved it.”
Baz nodded. “Obviously.”
“No.” Smurf’s voice hardened. “You don’t understand.” Baz looked up. Smurf stared down into her wine glass. “He doesn’t trust me.” The words hung heavily between them. Because that was the real problem. Not the money. Not the robberies. Trust. Pope had always trusted her. Even when he shouldn’t have. Even when nobody else did. Even when she’d given him every reason not to.
Now that loyalty belonged to someone else. And Smurf couldn’t stand it. For the next several days she watched. Waited. Listened. The more she saw, the more certain she became. You weren’t just Pope’s girlfriend. You weren’t a phase. You weren’t a distraction. You weren’t somebody who would eventually leave. You were becoming permanent. The realization terrified her.
Because permanent things couldn’t be controlled. Permanent things changed families. Permanent things made people choose sides. And for the first time in a very long time, Smurf wasn’t sure she’d win. That frightened her more than she would ever admit out loud.
One week later she sat in her car outside a police station. Her fingers rested lightly against the steering wheel. The building stood across the parking lot. Quiet. Ordinary.
A place she’d spent her entire life avoiding. For a long moment she simply stared at it. Then smiled. Slowly. Deliberately.
Because if Pope wanted to choose someone else over her, if he wanted to forget who taught him everything, then maybe it was time he learned exactly how dangerous it was to stop being her son.
Smurf stepped out of the car and headed toward the station doors. And for the first time, the war wasn’t going to be about money. It was going to be about you.
You smile watching Lena swing happily across from you. Pope sat next to you like a guard dog. “I’m glad we decided to open that trust for Lena,” you said, your hand resting on Pope’s thigh.
“Me too.” He smiled at you, still a little stunned by the idea. You’d fought harder for Lena’s future than some parents fought for their own children. The second you’d learned how uncertain her future could be, you’d started making plans. Researching schools. Looking at savings accounts. Talking about college funds. It wasn’t because anyone asked you to. It was because that’s who you were. “Did you think more about your father’s funeral?” Pope asked.
“I’m not going.” You shrugged. “You know, I shouldn’t feel guilty. But him needing a daughter in death means nothing when I needed a father in life and got nothing.”
Pope was quiet for a moment. The park buzzed around you with the sounds of children laughing and dogs barking somewhere in the distance. Finally, he reached over and squeezed your knee. “You don’t owe him anything.”
You looked down at his hand. “I know.”
“Then stop believing you do.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “Bossy.”
Pope looked entirely unapologetic. “Yeah.”
The conversation ended when Lena came sprinting across the playground toward you.
“Bambi!”
Your heart melted immediately. Pope rolled his eyes. You laughed. Lena launched herself at you so fast you barely had time to catch her. “Hey, bug.”
She wrapped both arms around your neck “Watch me!”
“I was watching.”
“No you weren’t.”
“Yes I was.”
“No.”
You gasped dramatically. “Excuse me?”
Lena giggled. The sound made something warm settle in your chest. She’d started doing this months ago. Seeking you out automatically. Reaching for your hand instead of anyone else’s. Climbing into your lap whenever she was tired. Asking for you when she got hurt. You’d never tried to replace her parents. Never wanted to. But somewhere along the way she’d decided you were hers.
And if you were honest? You’d decided she was yours too. “Push me?”
“You want me to push you?”
Lena nodded enthusiastically. “Higher.”
Pope immediately shook his head. “No.”
“C’mon Andrew.”
“No. Too dangerous.”
“Andyyyy.”
“No.”
Lena looked between both of you. Then pointed at him. “He’s being a poopyhead.”
You burst out laughing. Pope looked deeply offended. “I’m not a poopyhead.”
“You are.”
“See?” you said.
Lena nodded seriously. “Very poopy.”
Pope muttered something under his breath that made you laugh harder.
A few minutes later, you were standing behind Lena’s swing, gently pushing her while she squealed with delight. Pope remained close by, watching both of you with that same expression he always wore whenever the two of you were together. Like he couldn’t quite believe either of you were real.
For a brief moment, everything felt normal. Safe. Happy. Then you heard sirens. At first you didn’t think much of it. The park wasn’t far from a main road. But they kept getting closer. And closer. And closer.
Until suddenly several police vehicles pulled into the parking lot.
Your stomach dropped. Something about it felt wrong. Pope stood immediately. The shift in him was instant. Subtle. But instant.
Every muscle in his body tightened. You noticed. So did Lena. “Uncle Pope?”
The officers climbed out of their vehicles. Far too many of them. Your heart began pounding. “Andrew.”
Pope didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the approaching officers.
The realization hit you like a truck.
No. No. No.
The lead officer called his name. “Andrew Cody.”
Lena immediately grabbed your hand. Hard. Confused. Scared. You looked up at Pope.
He was staring straight ahead. Completely calm. Which somehow terrified you more.
“Andrew?” This time his eyes found yours. And the look on his face made your stomach turn. Because he knew. Somehow he already knew.
The officers approached quickly. One began reading from a piece of paper. Words blurred together. You were in such shock you couldn’t hear them. Investigation. Evidence. Robberies. Arrest warrant.
Your ears started ringing. “No.” The word escaped before you could stop it.
Pope looked at you. Just you. Not the officers. Not the crowd beginning to gather.
You.
Lena’s grip on your hand tightened painfully “Bambi?” Her voice trembled. You looked down. She looked terrified. “Why are they here?”
Your eyes filled instantly. “Uncle Pope has to go away for a while I think.” The officers moved toward Pope. You stepped forward automatically. “Wait.” Your voice cracked “Wait.”
Pope shook his head once. Small. Almost imperceptible. Like he was trying to tell you not to. Not here. Not now.
Lena was crying. “Uncle Pope!”
The sound broke something inside you. Pope immediately crouched down despite the officers fastly approaching him.
His attention shifted entirely to her. “Hey.”
Lena’s face was wet with tears. “Please don’t leave me uncle pope.”
“Hey.” His voice softened. The same voice he only used for the people he loved. “It’s okay.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Pope smiled sadly. “Bug.” Lena threw herself into him. Pope caught her automatically. Holding her close. You had to look away for a second because your own tears were falling now.
The second the officers reached him, the atmosphere changed. Any brief moment of sympathy disappeared. They weren’t looking at a man sitting in a park with his family.
They were looking at Andrew Cody. A convicted felon. A known criminal. Someone they had already decided was dangerous. And they didn’t care that there was a little girl sobbing for the only father figure she’d ever had.
Pope stood slowly, one hand still resting against Lena’s back as she clung to him. You could see him trying to keep her calm. Trying to make this easier. His attention never left her. “Love you, bug.”
Lena’s little fingers twisted desperately into his shirt as they pulled him.
“No.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
The first officer grabbed Pope’s arm. Hard. You saw Pope’s jaw tighten. Not from pain. From restraint. The officer yanked him away from Lena before he could say anything else.
Lena screamed rushing forward. The sound cut straight through you. “UNCLE POPE!”
You immediately moved forward grabbing her. “Hey, hey-”
Another officer stepped between you. Pope’s eyes snapped to you instantly. Not angry. Not scared. Worried. Because Lena was crying so hard she could barely breathe.
The officers spun him around. One hand shoved against his shoulder. Another grabbed his wrist. The metal click of handcuffs echoed through the park.
Lena completely lost it. She started thrashing in your arms. Trying to get to him “Stop, please.”
The officers ignored her. Ignored you. Ignored the crowd beginning to stare. To them, this was procedure.
To Lena, it looked like they were hurting someone she loved.
“You’re scaring her!” The words exploded out of you before you could stop them. One of the officers glanced over briefly. Then went right back to Pope. Lena buried her face against your neck for half a second before lifting it again. Still crying. Still reaching. “Please”
Your own eyes filled immediately. Because God. She looked terrified. Pope tried to turn toward her. The officer holding him shoved him forward again. “Keep moving.”
The movement made Lena cry even harder “No!”
Pope stopped walking. Only for a second. Just enough to look back. The officer clearly didn’t appreciate it. You watched his grip tighten. The entire situation felt wrong. Too rough. Too aggressive. Pope wasn’t fighting. Wasn’t resisting. Wasn’t doing anything except trying to look at the little girl crying for him.
“Take it easy,” you snapped. Nobody listened. Pope finally caught Lena’s eye. That seemed to ground him. Even now.
Even surrounded by officers. Even with handcuffs digging into his wrists. His focus remained entirely on her. “Bug.” Lena hiccuped through another sob. Pope managed a small smile. The kind that broke your heart. “You remember what I told you?”
She shook her head frantically. No. She didn’t remember anything. She was six. She was scared. Pope’s expression softened “You listen to Bambi.” Fresh tears spilled down Lena’s cheeks. “You listen to her, okay?”
The officer pushed him forward again. This time Pope had no choice but to move. Lena started screaming. Not crying. Screaming. The sound turned heads across the entire playground. You tightened your hold around her immediately. She was shaking. Her tiny body trembling against yours.
“It’s okay baby.” You were crying now too “It’s okay.”
But the words felt hollow. Because neither of you believed them. Pope looked back one final time as they reached the patrol car. His eyes found yours. Then Lena’s. The officer pushed his head down while forcing him into the back seat.
The door slammed shut. Lena burst into tears all over again. The patrol cars started pulling away. One by one. And you stood there in the middle of the playground holding a sobbing little girl who had already lost too many people.
For the first time since you’d met the Codys, you understood exactly how helpless Pope must have felt every time someone he loved was taken from him. And it terrified you.
The moment the patrol cars disappeared with Pope inside them, you knew exactly who had done it. Not how. Not why. Just who. Smurf. The certainty settled in your chest like a stone sinking straight to the bottom of the ocean. There was no one else who could have done this. No one else who knew Pope well enough to connect the dots. No one else vindictive enough to hand him over the second he stopped orbiting around her. The realization hit so hard it almost made you sick.
You stood frozen in the middle of the playground holding a sobbing Lena while officers and parents slowly returned to their lives around you. Children climbed jungle gyms. Swings creaked back and forth. Cars rolled through the parking lot. The world kept moving like nothing had happened.
Meanwhile it felt like your entire life had just been ripped apart in front of you.
Lena’s tiny fingers were tangled in your shirt “Where’s Uncle Pope going?”
Your throat tightened painfully. You adjusted her higher on your hip. “He’ll be okay, bug.” The lie tasted awful. Because you didn’t know if he was going to be okay. You didn’t know anything.
All you knew was that somebody had handed the police exactly what they needed. And there was only one person cruel enough to do it.
By the time you got Lena buckled into her car seat, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your phone twice. Your vision blurred every few seconds. Panic kept threatening to close around your throat like a vice. You finally managed to unlock the screen and scroll to J’s contact.
Why J?
Because there wasn’t a single person in that family who wanted Smurf’s downfall more than him.
No one understood the way her mind worked the way he did. No one had spent years quietly studying her, learning her patterns, waiting for an opportunity. And there certainly wasn’t anyone capable of tearing her empire apart piece by piece the way J could.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Bambi?”
You immediately started crying. Just exhausted tears. The kind that came after too much stress and too much fear.
J went silent immediately.
“What happened?”
“They took him.” The words came out broken.
J’s voice sharpened instantly. “What?”
“The police.” You pressed a hand against your forehead. “They arrested Pope.”
Silence.
The realization hit you almost immediately. He didn’t ask why. Not how. Not what happened. He didn’t sound surprised at all.
“Where are you?”
You looked into the rearview mirror. Lena sat in the back clutching the stuffed dolphin you’d bought her last month. Her cheeks were red from crying. She looked terrified. “I don’t know.”
Something in his voice made your stomach twist. You swallowed hard. You trusted J almost as much as you trusted Pope and Deran. If he was telling you not to go home, there was a reason. “Okay.”
“I’ll text you a location.” The call ended before you could ask anything else.
Twenty minutes later you were driving toward an abandoned marina on the edge of Oceanside.
The place looked forgotten. Half the docks sat empty. The buildings were weathered from years of salt, sun, and neglect. Rust clung to metal railings. Broken ropes swayed in the breeze. The entire place felt abandoned by time itself. The kind of location nobody paid attention to anymore. The kind of place J would choose.
He was already there when you arrived. Leaning against his truck. Waiting. You climbed out immediately.
Lena reached for your hand the second her feet touched the ground.
J’s face changed the moment he saw you. Because you looked awful. Mascara smeared beneath your eyes. Cheeks stained with tears. Shoulders shaking. You looked like someone whose world had just collapsed. “Bambi.”
You walked straight toward him. “She did it.”
J didn’t ask who. Didn’t need to.
His jaw tightened. “Are you sure?”
You nodded immediately. Fresh tears filled your eyes. “She did it. There was no one else who would’ve done this to Pope. She’s angry he doesn’t need her anymore.”
J stared out toward the water. Thinking. Always thinking. You’d learned that about him a long time ago. While everyone else reacted emotionally, J calculated. “What makes you think that?”
You laughed bitterly. “Because she hated it.”
“What?”
“When I took Pope away from the fighting, I didn’t even give her a chance to fight me on it. I could see the wheels turning in her head then.”
J looked back at you. “You think she wants revenge on you?”
Your voice cracked. “I think she hates me, and I think she went looking for the money and it was gone. Our apartment was torn apart last week. Andrew was losing his mind, but we’d already moved the money.” You shook your head. The memory made your stomach churn. “She must have hated that he didn’t bring it to her. That he didn’t do that for her.” Something flickered across J’s face. Interest. You kept going. Words spilling out faster now. Weeks of observations finally connecting together “She hates that I’ve given Pope the idea of what real love is like.”
“No.” J crossed his arms. “She doesn’t hate you.”
The answer surprised you. “What?”
J looked toward the ocean. The wind tugged at his shirt. “She hates what you represent. You stared. J laughed once. Humorless. “She spent her whole life making sure everybody needed her.” His eyes lifted toward yours. “Pope doesn’t need her anymore.” The realization hit harder hearing it from someone else. Because deep down you’d known. You just hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. Somehow hearing J confirm it made everything feel worse.
Lena tugged on your hand. “Can we go get Uncle Pope now?” The innocence in her voice nearly shattered you.
You crouched immediately. Brushing tears from her cheeks. “Soon, bug.”
“When?”
You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t promise something you weren’t sure you could deliver.
J watched quietly. Watched the way Lena automatically leaned into you. Watched the way your hand moved through her hair. Watched the way she looked at you. Like you were safety. Like you were home.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Then something clicked. You saw it happen. The exact moment a thought formed. The exact moment J found the angle. He looked back toward the water.
Then smiled. A small smile. The kind that usually meant somebody was about to have a very bad day.
“Bambi.”
You immediately hated that smile. “What?”
J looked at you. Really looked at you.
Then said quietly: “I think Smurf made a mistake.”
A chill ran down your spine. “What does that mean?”
J pushed away from the truck. The smile never leaving his face. “It means if she gave Pope to the police…” He glanced toward the horizon. “…she probably exposed herself too.”
For the first time since Pope had been taken away, a tiny spark of hope flickered inside your chest. And judging by the look on J’s face. He already knew exactly where to start digging.
J made busy work of hiding the cash in Smurf's air vent. It would've been too obvious if you hid the cash, and J knew his way around the house. He took the liberty of raiding Craig's room and stashing his drugs all through Smurf's room. To really make the charges stick, he thought to himself. All you needed to do was play the part he'd asked you and all would go well.
Your palms were sweating as you walked up to the window in the police station.
“Can I help you ma'am?” the officer behind the glass window asked you.
You walked up to the window and faked a nervous smile. “I'd like to report a crime.”
The officer, young, maybe late twenties, name tag reading Martinez straightened slightly. “What kind of crime?”
You swallowed. Glanced around like you were worried someone might overhear.
“I think, I think someone I know might be involved in those bank robberies. The ones that have been happening.”
Martinez's expression shifted immediately. More alert. More focused. “The string of robberies from the past week?”
“Yes.” Your voice came out shaky. Perfect. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, but-“
“Ma’am, why don't you have a seat. I’m going to get someone to take your statement.”
He gestured to a row of plastic chairs against the wall. You nodded and sat. Your hands were trembling in your lap. Not entirely fake.
What you were doing was insane. Dangerous. But Pope was sitting in a cell and you'd do anything to get him out.
Five minutes later, an older officer approached. Graying hair, weathered face, the look of someone who'd seen everything twice.
“Ma'am? I'm Officer Chen. Martinez said you have information about the bank robberies?”
You stood. “Yes. I-I'm not sure if it's relevant, but I think it might be.”
Chen pulled out a small notepad. “Why don't you start from the beginning. What's your name?”
You gave it. Spelled it out when he asked.
“And what makes you think someone you know is involved?”
You took a breath. “Her name is Janine Cody. Everyone calls her Smurf. She's-she's the mother of my boyfriend. I've been around her house a few times and lately she's been acting really strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Paranoid. Aggressive. She's always been kind of intense, but the last few weeks it's been different. She keeps having these private conversations, telling people to leave the room. And then a few days ago I-“
You stopped. Bit your lip. Chen looked up from his notepad.
“You what?”
“I saw cash. A lot of cash. In her bedroom. I wasn't snooping, I just-I was looking for the bathroom and the door was open and there were stacks of bills just sitting on her dresser.”
“How much cash are we talking about?”
“I don't know exactly. Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. It was bundled up like-like you see in movies.”
Chen's pen moved across the notepad. “And you think this cash is connected to the robberies?”
“I don't know. But it seemed weird. She doesn't have a job. And then I started thinking about the timing and-“ You paused. “I saw something else too.”
“What?”
“Drugs. In her room. Not like personal use amounts. Like-a lot. Baggies of pills, I think. Maybe other stuff. I didn't get a good look because she came back and I left.”
Chen's expression didn't change but you could see the interest there. The pieces clicking together. “Why are you coming forward now?”
This was the important part. The part J had coached you on.
“Because my boyfriend got arrested. Andrew Cody. He's one of her sons. And I know-I know-he didn't do this. He was with his nephew during at least two of the robberies. But the police think he's involved because of his record and because of his family and I just-“ Your voice cracked. Real emotion bleeding through. “I can't let him go down for something he didn't do. Especially if his own mother is the one who actually did it.”
Chen studied you. “You understand this is a serious accusation.”
“I know.”
“If you're lying, there are consequences.”
“I'm not lying.” You met his eyes. “I wish I was. But I saw what I saw. And if Smurf is involved in this, someone needs to know.”
Chen closed his notepad. “I'm going to need you to come back and give a formal statement. Probably to detectives. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And you're willing to testify if it comes to that?”
Your stomach dropped. But you nodded. “Yes officer.”
“Alright. Let me get your contact information.”
You gave him your phone number. Your address. Everything he asked for. When he finally dismissed you, your legs felt weak.
You walked out of the police station into the bright afternoon sun. Got into your car. Sat there for a full minute with your hands on the steering wheel. What you'd just done was irreversible.
You'd pointed a loaded gun directly at Smurf.
And when she found out-and she would find out-she'd come for you with everything she had.
But Pope was still in that cell. And you'd just set the wheels in motion to get him out.
You started the car. Drove home. And waited.
Two days later, you were sitting on the floor with Lena, building a tower out of blocks. The TV was on in the background. Some afternoon news program you weren't really watching. Baz was still in mexico visiting his girlfriend, Lena hadn’t asked once when her dad was coming home.
Lena carefully placed another block on top of the tower, her tongue sticking out in concentration.
“Good job, baby,” you murmured, handing her another one.
She beamed at you. The tower was getting tall now. Precarious. You steadied the base while she added another block.
On the TV, the weatherman was talking about a cold front moving in. Rain expected through the weekend. You weren't paying attention. Your mind was elsewhere. On Pope. On what you'd done. On whether it would actually work.
Lena placed another block. The tower swayed. “Careful,” you said softly.
She giggled. Placed it more gently. The tower held.
“-breaking news out of Oceanside this afternoon-“
Your head snapped up. The weatherman was gone. Replaced by a news anchor with that serious expression they always got for big stories.
“-police have made an arrest in connection with the string of bank robberies that happened in broad daylight last week-“
Your heart stopped.
“-Janine Cody, a fifty-eight-year-old Oceanside resident, was taken into custody this morning-“
The screen cut to footage. Live footage. Smurf's house. Police cars everywhere. Lights flashing. Officers moving in and out of the frame.
And then There she was. Smurf. Being led out in handcuffs. Her face was stone. No emotion. No fear.
Just that cold, calculating look she always had. But her hands were cuffed behind her back. And she was being walked toward a police car.
“Authorities say they recovered substantial evidence linking Cody to the six robberies, including large amounts of cash and controlled substances found in her residence-“
You couldn't breathe. Lena was still playing with the blocks. Humming to herself. Completely oblivious.
On the screen, Smurf was being put into the back of the police car. An officer's hand on her head. Guiding her down. She didn't resist. Didn't fight. Just went. But her eyes- Even through the TV screen, you could see them.
Looking for whoever did this. Looking for the person who set her up.
“-Cody's son, Andrew Cody, was previously arrested in connection with the robberies but has since been released. Sources say new evidence pointed investigators in a different direction-“
Your hands were shaking. You pressed them flat against the carpet. Lena knocked over the tower. Blocks scattered everywhere. She laughed. Started gathering them up to build again.
On the TV, they were showing Smurf's house again. Officers carrying out boxes. Evidence bags.
The cash you knew J hid in the air vent. The drugs he'd planted throughout her room.
All of it being catalogued. Documented. Used against her.
“-police are calling this a major break in the case. Cody is expected to be arraigned tomorrow morning-“
The camera cut back to the anchor. But you were still seeing Smurf's face. The way she'd looked being led to that car. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. You'd done this.
You'd pointed them at her. Given them everything they needed. And now she was in custody. An innocent person.
Well-not innocent.
Smurf had done plenty of terrible things. But not this. Not these robberies. This was all you. All your lie. Your fabrication. Your betrayal.
Lena tugged on your sleeve.
“Can you play with me,” she said, holding out a block. “Wanna build a castle for my doll.”
You blinked. Looked down at her. At her sweet face. Her trusting eyes. She had no idea what you'd just watched. What you'd done.
What kind of person you were becoming “Yeah, baby,” you managed. “Let's play.” You took the block from her. Helped her start a new tower. But your hands were still shaking.
And on the TV, they were still talking about Smurf's arrest. Still showing footage of her being taken away. Because of you. You'd saved Pope. That's what mattered. That's what you kept telling yourself. You'd saved him.
But the image of Smurf's face-cold and calculating and already planning her revenge-wouldn't leave your mind.
Lena placed another block. The tower grew. And you sat there on the floor, playing with a child, while the weight of what you'd done settled into your bones like lead.
Pope would be released soon. He'd come home. He'd be safe. That's what you'd wanted. That's what you'd done this for.
But Smurf-Smurf would figure it out eventually.
She always did. And when she did-
Lena knocked over the tower again. Laughed. Started rebuilding. You helped her. Hands still shaking. Heart still racing.
The news had moved on to another story. But you were still there. Still watching Smurf being led away in handcuffs. Still feeling the weight of the gun you'd pointed at her. Still knowing that when she got out, and she would get out eventually, she'd come for you.
But Pope would be home. And that had to be enough. It had to be.
It was almost midnight when you heard the key in the lock. You'd been sitting on the couch for hours. Lena had fallen asleep around eight.
You'd carried her to bed, tucked her in, kissed her forehead. Then returned to the couch. Waiting. The door opened. And there he was. Pope. Standing in the doorway.
Free. Home.
Relief hit you so hard you couldn't breathe. You stood. Took a step toward him.
“Andrew-“
But he didn't move. Didn't come to you. Just stood there. Looking at you.
And his expression- It wasn't relief. It wasn't gratitude. It was something darker. Something that made your stomach drop.
“Andy?”
He closed the door behind him. Locked it. Then turned back to you.
“You framed my mother.” His voice was quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.
You swallowed. “I got you out.”
“You framed my mother,” he repeated, taking a step forward. “You planted evidence. You lied to the cops. You put her in a cell.”
“She would've let you rot-“
“That's not the fucking point.” His voice rose slightly. Then he caught himself. Glanced toward the room he knew Lena was sleeping in. When he looked back at you, his jaw was tight. “Do you have any idea what you've done?”
“I saved you.”
“You made an even bigger enemy of Smurf.” He took another step closer. “My mother. The most dangerous person either of us knows. You put a target on your back and you didn't even fucking ask me.”
Your hands clenched into fists. “You were in jail, Andrew. What was I supposed to do? Let you sit in there when your mother turned you in?”
“Yes.”
The word hit you like a slap. “What?”
“Yes,” he said again, his eyes burning into yours. “I would've handled it. I would've gotten out. But now-“ He ran a hand through his hair. “Now she's going to figure out it was you. And when she does-“
“I don't care.”
“Well I fucking do.” The words came out raw. Desperate. Pope closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands came up to frame your face. Rough. Urgent.
“I care,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I care that you're in danger. I care that she's going to come for you. I care that you did this, that you crossed this line, for me.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “I'd do it again.”
“I know.”
“I'd do worse.”
“I know.” His forehead dropped to yours. “That's what scares me.”
You reached up. Wrapped your hands around his wrists. “I'm not afraid of her.”
“You should be.”
“I'm not afraid of anything when it comes to you.”
Pope's breath shuddered out. “Bambi-“
“You killed my father for me,” you whispered. “You think I wouldn't burn the whole world down to keep you safe?”
His eyes closed. “That's different.”
“How?”
“Because I can handle the consequences of what I did. But this-“ His hands tightened on your face. “This puts you in her crosshairs. And I can't-I can't lose you.” The vulnerability in his voice broke something in you.
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“Yes I do.” You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Because you're going to protect me. The same way I protected you.”
Pope stared at you. And you could see it. The war happening behind his eyes. The anger at what you'd done. The terror of what it meant. The love, the overwhelming, consuming love, that made him understand exactly why you'd done it. Because he would've done the same. He had done the same.
“I'm so fucking angry at you,” he said finally. “And I-“ His voice cracked. “I love you so much it's killing me.”
You pulled his hands away from your face. Pressed them against your chest. Over your heart. “Then we're even.”
Pope's eyes searched yours. Looking for something. Regret, maybe. Fear. Hesitation. But you had none of those things. Not when it came to him.
“She's going to come for us,” he said quietly.
“Let her.”
“Bambi-“
“Let her,” you repeated. “We'll handle it. Together.”
Pope was silent for a long moment.
Then he pulled you against him. Hard. His arms wrapped around you like he was trying to absorb you into his body. Keep you safe through sheer force of will. You buried your face in his chest. Breathed him in. He smelled like the jail. Like industrial soap and stale air. But underneath that, Underneath that, he smelled like Pope. Like home.
“I can't lose you,” he whispered into your hair.
“You won't.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” It was a lie. You both knew it. Because Smurf was dangerous. And she would figure it out. And when she did…But that was a problem for another day. Right now, Pope was home. He was safe. He was yours. And you were his.
That had to be enough. Pope pulled back slightly. Looked down at you. “You're insane,” he said. But there was something else in his voice now. Something that wasn't quite anger anymore.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “But so are you.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “We're fucked.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely.”
You reached up. Cupped his face. “Then we're fucked together.”
Pope's eyes darkened. And then he was kissing you. Angry and grateful and terrified all at once.
You kissed him back with everything you had. Poured all of it into him. The relief. The fear. The absolute certainty that you'd do it all again.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard.
“Lena's asleep,” you whispered.
Pope nodded. Glanced toward her room. “She okay?”
“She's fine. She missed you.”
Something softened in his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he looked back at you. “I need you to understand something.”
You waited. “What you did-framing Smurf-it changes things. She's not going to let this go. Ever. And when she figures out it was you-“
“I know.”
“No.” His hands tightened on your waist. “I don't think you do. She's going to want blood. And I'm going to have to choose between you and her.”
Your heart stopped. “Andrew-“
“And I'm choosing you,” he said, his voice hard. “Every time. No matter what. But that means-“ He swallowed. “That means I'm going to have to do things. Things that are going to make what I did to your father look like nothing.”
You stared at him. Understanding settling in. “You're going to kill her.”
Pope didn't answer. Didn't need to. The answer was written all over his face. “When she comes for you,” he said quietly, “I'm going to end her. My own mother. And I need you to be okay with that.”
You should've been horrified. Should've tried to talk him out of it. Should've said there had to be another way. Tried to remind him his guilt would eat him alive, that you knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. But you didn't. Because you understood. Because you'd already crossed that line yourself.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Pope's eyes widened slightly. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
He searched your face. “You're not going to try to stop me?”
“Why would I?”
“Bambi-“
“You killed my father to protect me,” you said. “I'm not going to stop you from doing what you need to do to keep us safe.”
Pope stared at you. And you could see it. The moment he realized just how far gone you both were. How there was no coming back from this. How you'd both chosen each other over everything else. Over morality. Over family. Over the people you used to be.
Pope pulled you close again. Held you tight. And you stood there in the dark living room. Lena sleeping peacefully down the hall. Two people who'd crossed every line. Who'd destroyed everyone who threatened them. Who'd chosen each other over everything.
“I love you,” Pope whispered.
“I love you too.”
And in that moment, it was enough. It had to be. Because there was no going back now. Popes mouth crashed against yours, all teeth and tongue and desperation. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he walked you backward until your back hit the wall. You gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, kissing you like he was trying to consume you.
“You're mine,” he mumbled a growl against your lips “You understand that? You're fucking mine.”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Say it.”
“I'm yours.”
“Again.”
“I'm yours, Andrew. I'm yours.”
His hands were everywhere, sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist, your ribs, your breasts. Rough and possessive and claiming. You arched into his touch, needing more, needing everything.
“You framed my mother for me,” he said, his voice raw. “You put yourself in danger for me.”
“Yes.”
“You'd do it again.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Fuck.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild. “You're going to get yourself killed.”
“Then you better keep me alive.”
Pope's jaw clenched. Then he was kissing you again, harder this time, one hand fisting in your hair while the other yanked at your clothes. You helped him, desperate to feel his skin against yours, to have nothing between you. Your shirt hit the floor. Then your bra. Pope's mouth moved to your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. Claiming you. Marking you as his.
“Andrew-“
“Shut up,” he growled. “Just-shut up and let me-“ His hands were on your jeans now, yanking them open, shoving them down your hips. You kicked them off along with your underwear, and then you were naked against the wall while he was still fully clothed.
The imbalance should've made you feel vulnerable. It didn't. It made you feel wanted. Claimed. His.
Pope's hand slid between your legs and you gasped at the contact. He groaned when he felt how wet you were.
“Fuck, Sweetheart. You're soaked.”
“I need you.”
“I know.” His fingers circled your clit, making you whimper. “I know you do.”
“Please-“
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me.”
Pope's eyes went dark. He pulled his hand away and you whined at the loss, but then he was working his belt open, shoving his jeans down just enough to free himself. He didn't bother taking anything else off. Didn't bother moving you to the bedroom. Just gripped your thigh, hitched your leg up around his hip, and thrust into you in one hard stroke.
You cried out at the sudden fullness, your head falling back against the wall. Pope's hand immediately covered your mouth.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “Lena's sleeping.”
You nodded, biting your lip to keep from making noise as he started to move. Hard. Fast. Desperate. This wasn't making love. This was claiming. Possessing. Proving that you belonged to each other no matter what came next.
Pope's hand stayed over your mouth as he fucked you against the wall, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. You could feel the anger in every thrust, anger at what you'd done, anger at the danger you were in, anger at himself for loving you so much he'd kill his own mother to keep you safe.
But underneath the anger was something else.
Devotion.
Love so fierce it bordered on obsession.
The absolute certainty that you were his and he was yours and nothing else mattered. Your leg was starting to shake from the position but you didn't care. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on as he drove into you over and over, each thrust pushing you higher.
“You're mine,” he growled against your ear. “Say it again.”
“I'm yours,” you gasped against his palm.
“Again.”
“I'm yours, Andrew. Always yours.”
“Fuck-“ His rhythm faltered. “You're going to make me-“
“Do it,” you whispered. “Come inside me. Claim me.”
Pope's hand tightened over your mouth as he thrust into you one last time, burying himself deep as he came. You felt him pulse inside you and it pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you in waves.
You bit down on his palm to keep from crying out, your whole body shaking as pleasure rolled through you.
When you finally came down, Pope was still holding you against the wall, both of you breathing hard. His hand slipped away from your mouth and he pressed his forehead to yours.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
“We're going to survive this.”
“I know.”
“I'm going to keep you safe.” Pope pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were still wild, still desperate, but there was something else there now too. The knowledge that you'd both crossed a line and there was no going back. “Come on,” he said quietly, carefully lowering your leg. “Let's go to bed.”
You nodded, letting him lead you down the hall. Past Lena's room where she slept peacefully, unaware of the storm brewing around her. Into your bedroom where Pope finally stripped off his clothes and pulled you into bed with him.
Just wanted to post something for @miasvelvetvoid and her Bambi series, it’s one of the best series I’ve read in a while and I can NOT wait to see what comes of it, between the relationship between Bambi and each of the boys (- baz bc we don’t like him here) and just the overall look over and how her relationship (or lowk lack there of) with Smurf is so freaking amazing
If I had to suggest a series for someone who is JUST getting into them and is not sure what to read- READ THISSSSS
Reading messages like this genuinely makes my day. I’m so happy you’re enjoying the series, and knowing you’re excited to see what happens next means more to me than I can explain. Every comment, message, and bit of support reminds me why I love sharing these stories in the first place.
Thank you for being here, for reading, and for caring so much about these characters. Your support truly means the world to me, and I’m so grateful for you
summary: A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: angst!!!, depression, parental abuse, financial abuse, readers trauma in full swing, warning for readers father, manipulation, coercion, stalking, panic attacks, crying, breakdown, use of violence for gain, armed robberies, murder (lol), protective!pope, mentions of drug use, mentions of overdose (readers mom), pope doesn’t know what’s wrong with reader so he just does the most, police chase, psycho!pope but it’s hot, pope doesn’t play when it comes to bambi fr (we been knew), smut!! (oral f!receiving, he’s a munch, oral m!receiving, throat fucking fr, gratuitous sex???, breeding kink, unprotected piv, slight slight choking not fully.), i think pope would just disappear for a while when he sets his mind to something so… yea, we see a diff side of bambi, bambi matches his freak lowkey. word count: 17.7k (somebody sedate me pls) amalia’s love note: I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR!!! in an attempt to make up for the lack of pope last chapter i present you with this very fun, very special, very dark piece. you might be thinking, oh she’s gunna enable him, no sir he be doing that himself anywhore onto bigger better things!!!! i rly do imagine pope just saying ‘no’ over and over in an argument with bambi lmao. we are going to pretend that I didn’t forget to write him wearing a ski mask :) love yall. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Normally you could spend hours wandering between vendors, buying things you didn’t need and convincing yourself they somehow counted as necessities. Fresh flowers. Homemade soap. Bread that cost way too much money. Little pieces of normal life. The kind of things you always promised yourself you wouldn’t buy and somehow ended up carrying back to your car anyway. It had become one of your favorite ways to spend a Saturday morning, getting lost in crowds of strangers and pretending for a few hours that your biggest concern was whether you really needed another candle.
Today, though, your mind was somewhere else entirely.
You’d spent the morning studying for an exam that felt extremely impossible, your bag still slung over one shoulder as you wandered between booths with an iced coffee in your hand. The summer sun was warm against your skin. People laughed around you. Families pushed strollers down the crowded rows. A little girl ran past carrying a bouquet of sunflowers almost as big as she was. Somewhere nearby a musician played an acoustic guitar. Everything around you felt normal. Peaceful. The kind of day that should have felt easy.
For a few minutes, you almost felt normal. Then your phone rang. You glanced down.
Dad.
Your stomach immediately tightened. You hadn’t spoken to him in years.
The call went to voicemail. You let out a relieved sigh and kept walking, trying to ignore the sudden spike of anxiety crawling up your spine. You focused on the coffee in your hand. The crowd. The music. Anything except the name that had appeared on your screen. Maybe that was it. Maybe he’d gotten the hint. Maybe he’d leave it alone.
Then it rang again.
And again.
And again.
By the fifth call, people were starting to glance at you. Your chest felt tight. The ringing seemed louder now, impossible to ignore. Each vibration against your palm felt like a countdown to something terrible. You already knew this wasn’t going to be a normal conversation. Your father never called unless he wanted something. Never reached out unless there was a problem he expected someone else to solve. Your hands were already sweating by the time you answered.
“What?”
Silence. Then a familiar sigh. Disappointed. Long-suffering. The same sigh he’d used your entire childhood whenever he wanted you to feel guilty.
“Nice to hear from you too.”
You closed your eyes. “What do you want?”
“Wow.”
“Dad.”
“No hello? No how are you? Nothing?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Every conversation started like this. Always. No matter what he had done, somehow you ended up defending yourself before the real conversation even began. It was like being dropped back into childhood without warning. Suddenly you were eight years old again, trying to figure out why everything was somehow your fault.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Please tell me what you want?”
The silence that followed made your skin crawl. For the first time, he sounded nervous. Not angry. Nervous. And that scared you more. Your father angry was normal. Predictable. Your father scared meant something was wrong.
“I need your help.”
Your stomach dropped. Of course. Of course he did. Because your father never called just to call. He called when he wanted something. He called when he needed something. He called when he wanted somebody else to clean up his mess. The tiny bit of hope you’d had that maybe he’d just wanted to hear your voice vanished instantly.
“What happened?”
Another long silence.
“I owe some people money.”
You actually laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous. Because somehow, despite everything, this was exactly what you should have expected.
“Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Please listen.”
The word please coming from him immediately made your pulse quicken. Your father didn’t say please. Not unless something was very wrong. Not unless he was desperate enough to start performing vulnerability.
“How much?”
Silence. Way too much silence.
“Fifty thousand.”
The world seemed to stop. The crowd around you disappeared. The music. The noise. Everything.
“What?”
“Fifty thousand.”
You genuinely thought you might throw up. The number echoed through your skull. Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand dollars. You could barely keep up with your tuition payments “Dad, I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“You have connections.”
You stared at nothing. Confused. “What connections?”
“You’re in medical school.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You know people.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“No, I really don’t.” You felt yourself getting frustrated. Because none of this made any sense. You were a student. A broke student. You lived in an apartment Pope owned. Half your bank account disappeared into tuition every semester. You counted every dollar most months. You worried about textbooks. Gas money. Rent if you ever had to move out. “Dad, I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
“You could get it.”
“No.”
“You could.”
“No.”
“You always give up before you try.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was his thing. Twisting reality until you weren’t sure what was true anymore.
Suddenly the impossible became your fault. Suddenly his choices became your responsibility. Suddenly you were the selfish one. The bad daughter. The one who wasn’t trying hard enough.
“Dad.”
“If you wanted to help me, you’d find a way.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars,” you whispered, feeling guilty anyway.
“You could take out loans.”
You frowned. “Loans?” No bank would give you more loans when you’d already taken out almost two hundred thousand dollars in student loans. He knew that. Or maybe he didn’t care. Either way, the expectation remained the same.
“You’re smart. Figure it out.”
Figure it out. The phrase echoed. Figure it out. The same thing he’d said when your mom overdosed. The same thing he’d said when you ran away. The same thing he’d said every time life became inconvenient. Figure it out.
Your breathing started feeling strange. Too fast. Too shallow. You swallowed hard “What happened?”
He was quiet. “I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?” Silence. “Dad.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“They’re going to kill me.”
The words knocked the air from your lungs. Your eyes filled instantly. Your father lied constantly. Manipulated constantly. Exaggerated constantly. But fear? Real fear You could hear it.
“They said if I don’t pay, they’re going to kill me.”
You leaned against a nearby vendor tent because your knees suddenly felt weak. The edges of your vision blurred. Your stomach rolled violently. The crowd around you felt impossibly far away now, like you were trapped behind glass watching the world continue without you. “Oh my God.” You felt nauseous suddenly.
“You can’t let that happen. You already killed your mother, don’t be the reason I die too.”
The guilt arrived immediately. Heavy. Crushing. Familiar. The same guilt he’d spent years building inside you. The same guilt that somehow survived every therapy session, every attempt to heal, every logical reminder that your mother’s addiction had never been your fault. “Dad…”
“You’re all I have.”
That was a lie. You knew it was a lie. He had a wife. Children. Friends. An entire life that didn’t include you. But somehow hearing it still hurt. Because part of you still wanted him to choose you. Still wanted him to love you. Still wanted to matter.
“If they kill me-”
“Stop,” you begged.
“It’s true.”
“Stop,” you begged harder now.
“If they kill me, it’ll be because nobody helped me.”
The panic attack hit so fast it stole your breath. You couldn’t inhale properly. Your vision blurred. Your hands started shaking. The crowd suddenly felt too loud. The sun felt too bright. Your chest felt too small to hold your lungs. “Dad, stop.”
“I’m scared.”
And there it was. The final hook. Because for all the horrible things your father had done, there was still a little girl inside you that wanted him to love her. A little girl who wanted to save him. A little girl who still thought maybe if she fixed enough of his problems, he’d finally become the father she deserved. Your heart was hammering so hard it hurt. Tears burned behind your eyes. Every logical thought in your brain was being drowned out by guilt and fear.
“I’ll-I’ll see what I can do.” The words left your mouth before you even realized you were saying them.
His relief was immediate. “I knew you’d help me.” Of course. Not thank you. Not I’m sorry. Just certainty. Because helping him wasn’t a gift. It was an expectation.
The call ended a few minutes later. You sat in your car for almost an hour afterward. Staring at nothing. Trying not to cry. Trying not to panic. Every few minutes another wave of anxiety would hit and your chest would tighten all over again. You kept replaying the conversation. Kept hearing his voice. Kept hearing you already killed your mother. You knew it wasn’t true. You knew it was manipulative. You knew exactly what he was doing. And somehow it worked anyway.
You didn’t tell Pope. Not that day. Not the next day. Not the day after that.
You told yourself you were protecting him. That you could handle it. That you would figure something out. Every morning you woke up with the same pit in your stomach and the same promise to yourself. Today would be the day you fixed it. Today would be the day you found a solution. Today would be the day you stopped feeling like you were drowning. But every night ended the same way, with your laptop open in front of you, your eyes burning from exhaustion, and another dead end staring back at you from the screen.
Instead, the secret started eating you alive. You stopped sleeping. Stopped concentrating. Stopped studying. At first it was small things. Missing a few lecture notes. Forgetting assignments. Reading the same paragraph in a textbook six times without retaining a single word. Then it got worse. Entire days blurred together. You’d sit at your desk for hours accomplishing nothing. Your thoughts felt trapped in a constant loop, always returning to the same impossible problem. Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand dollars. The number followed you everywhere. It sat beside you in class. It waited for you in the shower. It followed you into your dreams.
You spent hours looking at loans you couldn’t qualify for and jobs that wouldn’t pay enough in ten years, never mind ten days. Every rejection felt personal. Every denial felt like proof that your father had been right about you all along. Not smart enough. Not capable enough. Not resourceful enough. You knew logically that wasn’t true. You knew most people couldn’t magically produce fifty thousand dollars. But logic had never stood much of a chance against the voice your father planted in your head years ago. The more desperate you became, the louder that voice got.
Every time your phone rang, your stomach dropped. Every text from your father made your hands shake.
“Any luck?”
“They’re asking again.”
“I’m running out of time.”
“You promised you’d help.”
Sometimes he called three or four times in a row. Sometimes he left voicemails. Sometimes he sent paragraphs describing how scared he was. How alone he was. How nobody else would help him. And every single message made you feel smaller. Worse. More responsible. You knew what he was doing. You could practically hear your therapist’s voice explaining manipulation and guilt and emotional abuse. The problem was that understanding it didn’t stop it from working. You still found yourself staring at your phone at three in the morning wondering if he was telling the truth. Wondering if somebody was actually going to kill him. Wondering if you were about to lose another parent because you couldn’t save them.
By the end of the week, Pope started noticing. Because Pope always noticed. The dark circles under your eyes. The untouched food. The way you’d stare at your phone before quickly locking the screen whenever he walked into the room. The way your hands trembled when you thought nobody was looking. The way you stopped curling against him on the couch. The way you’d disappear into the bathroom for twenty minutes at a time just to sit on the floor and breathe through the panic before he could see it.
The worst part was that you started pulling away without even meaning to. Not because you wanted distance from him. Because being near him made you feel guilty. Pope loved you in a way that was almost overwhelming sometimes. He noticed when you skipped meals. He remembered what kind of coffee you liked. He kissed your forehead when you fell asleep studying. Every act of kindness felt like a spotlight shining directly on the secret you were keeping. You hated lying to him. Hated every forced smile. Hated every excuse. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. Because the second you did, it would become real.
One night you sat at the kitchen table pretending to study while Pope cooked dinner. The apartment smelled like garlic and onions. A normal night. A peaceful night. The kind of night you usually loved. Instead, you spent most of it staring blankly at the same page while your phone sat face down beside your notebook. You jumped when it vibrated. Not enough for most people to notice. Enough for Pope.
You flipped it over before he could see the screen.
“Everything okay?” he asked from the stove.
“Yeah.” The lie came automatically.
Pope glanced over his shoulder.
You immediately looked back down at your textbook. “Okay.” That was all he said. But you could feel his eyes on you. Could feel him watching. Not suspicious. Concerned. Which somehow felt worse.
By the time you climbed into bed that night, exhaustion had settled so deeply into your bones it felt permanent. Pope was already lying down. The second you slipped beneath the blankets, his arm automatically wrapped around your waist. Normally you would’ve curled into him without thinking. Normally you’d bury your face in his chest and let the sound of his heartbeat calm your mind. Instead, you lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Your father’s messages replayed endlessly in your head. Your chest felt tight. Your eyes burned. You couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways this could end badly. Beside you, Pope’s breathing stayed slow and steady. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then quietly, in the darkness, his hand tightened against your side. Just slightly. Like he knew. Like he didn’t know what was wrong yet, but he knew something was. And somehow that almost made you cry more than your father’s phone calls ever did.
By the following week, Pope had stopped asking questions. Not because he wasn’t worried. Because every time he asked, you lied.
The lies weren’t convincing. They never were. Not to him. You’d smile and tell him school was stressful. Tell him you were tired. Tell him exams were kicking your ass. Then you’d turn around and spend forty minutes staring at your phone like it was about to explode in your hands.
Pope knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. So he watched. Not in a creepy way. At least not by Pope standards.
He simply started paying closer attention. The first time he followed you, he expected you to go to class. Instead, he watched you walk into a bank.
Pope frowned from across the street. You were inside for almost thirty minutes. When you came out, your shoulders were slumped.
You sat in your car afterward for another fifteen. Just sitting there. Staring at the steering wheel. Then you wiped your face.
Pope’s stomach dropped. You were crying.
The second bank happened two days later.
The third happened the day after that.
By the fourth, Pope was getting angry. Not at you. At whatever had put that look back into your eyes. The look he’d spent months helping you get rid of.
The one that reminded him of how you’d looked in Smurfs kitchen after Nate hit you. Scared. Lost. Alone.
The fifth bank lasted less than ten minutes. You came out looking devastated.
Pope watched you sit in your car and lower your forehead onto the steering wheel. You stayed like that for almost twenty minutes. Not moving. Just sitting there.
Something twisted painfully in his chest. Because you looked defeated. And Pope hated seeing you defeated.
The sixth bank was the worst one. You’d spent nearly an hour inside. Long enough that Pope actually started worrying. Long enough that he nearly walked in himself.
Then the doors opened. And there you were. Eyes red. Face pale. Walking like somebody had just told you the world was ending.
Pope watched you make it halfway across the parking lot before stopping completely. You stood beside your car staring into space. Then suddenly your hands covered your face. Your shoulders shook.
Even from across the lot, he could tell. You were crying. Hard. The kind of crying people did when they thought nobody could see them.
Pope gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a brief moment he considered getting out. Going to you. Demanding answers.
Instead he forced himself to stay put. Because if you wanted him to know, you would’ve told him. Wouldn’t you?
The thought sat wrong. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
You drove home almost an hour later.
Pope gave you enough time to get inside before following.
The apartment was dark when he walked through the front door.
Too dark. No television. No music. No sound. His stomach immediately tightened.
“Sweetheart?” Nothing. He dropped his keys onto the counter. “Bambi?”
Still nothing. Then he heard it. A broken sound. Small. Almost impossible to hear. A sob.
Pope’s heart stopped. He followed the sound down the hallway. The bathroom door was open. And there you were. Curled up on the floor. Completely shattered.
You were sitting against the bathtub with your knees pulled to your chest. Your phone was lying discarded beside you. Mascara stained your cheeks. Your entire body shook with every breath. You looked like you’d been crying for hours.
Something inside Pope broke instantly “Sweetheart.”
Your head lifted. The second you saw him, whatever fragile control you’d been holding onto disappeared. A sob ripped from your throat. Not a quiet cry. Not tears. A genuine, devastating sob. The kind that came from somewhere deep. The kind that hurt.
“Oh sweetheart.”
Pope was on the floor beside you immediately. You practically fell into him. Both arms wrapping around his middle. Holding on like you were drowning.
Pope pulled you into his lap without hesitation. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other rubbing slow circles across your back. “It’s okay.”
You shook your head violently. Another sob escaping. Words tried to form. Failed.
Pope could barely understand you. “I know.”
You buried your face deeper into his chest. Your fingers twisted desperately into his shirt. Like if you let go, you’d fall apart completely.
“Hey.” His voice softened. The way it only ever softened for you. “Look at me.”
You couldn’t. Every time you tried, another wave of tears hit. Another sob. Another shaky breath. Pope’s chest physically hurt. Because you were trying so hard. Trying to explain something. Trying to carry something. And it was crushing you.
“I tried.” The words came out broken. Barely audible.
“I know.”
“I tried so hard.” A fresh wave of tears followed immediately.
Pope’s hand tightened against your hair. “I know sweetheart.”
You shook your head. “No.” Another sob. “I tried.”
Pope felt something cold settle in his stomach. Because whatever this was You genuinely believed it was your fault.
You kept repeating it. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Like if you said it enough times maybe somebody would believe you. Maybe you’d believe you.
“I tried.”
“I know.”
“I really tried.”
“I know.”
Pope pressed a kiss against your forehead. Then another. Then another. Like he was trying to hold you together with nothing but touch. “You don’t gotta do this right now.”
Your breathing hitched. “They’re gonna-” The rest dissolved into tears.
Pope immediately frowned. “They’re gonna what?”
You just cried harder. Words disappearing entirely. Pope’s heart was racing now. Something was very wrong. Very wrong. But every time you got close to explaining it, another sob cut you off.
Another wave of panic. Another breakdown.
Eventually you exhausted yourself. The sobs became quieter. Your grip on his shirt loosened. Your head grew heavier against his chest.
Pope kept rubbing your back the entire time. Never stopping. Never rushing. “It’s okay sweetheart.” Your eyes were already closing “You can sleep.”
A small sound escaped you. Exhausted. Defeated. Heartbroken. Pope held you for another twenty minutes before realizing you’d finally fallen asleep.
Your breathing had evened out. Your body had gone completely limp against him. Carefully, he slipped one arm beneath your knees. The other around your back. Then stood. You barely stirred. Just curled instinctively closer. Seeking warmth. Seeking comfort. Seeking him.
Pope carried you into the bedroom. Pulled the blankets back. Laid you down gently. For a moment he simply stood there looking at you. Your face was swollen from crying. Your eyelashes were still damp. Even asleep, you looked sad.
That bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Pope sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from your face. Whatever this was. Whatever had put that terrified look back into your eyes. Whatever had you crying on bathroom floors and visiting six different banks.
He was going to find out.
And when he did, God help whoever was responsible. Because nobody got to make you cry like that. Nobody.
Pope woke before dawn with your tear streaked face in his mind. The apartment was dark, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He didn't need an alarm, his body knew what today was. What it had to be. He sat up on the edge of the bed, bare feet on cold hardwood, and let the weight of it settle over him.
He thought about your smile, the way you looked at him like he was capable of anything. Like he was more than just another Cody boy destined for prison or an early grave. You deserved better than this life, better than scraping by in Oceanside with nothing but salt air and broken promises. Today, he’d give you something real. Something that mattered.
Pope stood and moved through the apartment with practiced efficiency. Black jeans. Dark hoodie. Gloves tucked in his back pocket. He checked the duffel bag one more time, spark plugs, ceramic tips intact, wrapped carefully in cloth. The perfect tool. Small, portable, effective against tempered glass. He’d learned that years ago, watching a tweaker smash a car window in seconds. Physics and desperation made strange bedfellows.
The first car was parked three blocks away, a stolen Honda Civic with plates he’d swapped yesterday. He’d staged all six vehicles across Oceanside over the past week, each one clean, each one disposable. The planning had taken a day. The execution would take hours.
Pope locked the apartment door behind him and stepped into the dawn darkness. His heart was already beating faster. Not fear, he’d left fear behind a long time ago. This was something else. Purpose. Clarity. Love distilled into criminal intent.
The first bank opened at nine.
Pope sat in the Honda three blocks from First National, watching the morning unfold. Commuters shuffled past, clutching coffee cups, staring at phones. None of them saw him. That was the trick, be so ordinary that you disappeared. Just another guy in a car, waiting for nothing in particular.
At 9:07 AM, he pulled on the gloves and stepped out. The bank was a squat brick building with large windows facing the street. He’d cased it four times over the past day, memorized the layout, the camera positions, the response times. Security guard on duty, but older, slower. Tellers behind bulletproof glass. The real money wasn’t in the drawers, it was in the ATM vestibule, the cash display cases, the manager’s office if you knew where to look.
Pope walked in like he belonged there. Calm. Confident. He moved past the teller stations toward the back where they kept the promotional displays, those glass cases full of cash meant to entice people into opening accounts. Stupid, really. Might as well put a sign that said “Rob Me.”
His hand closed around the spark plug in his pocket. The ceramic tip was the key. Tempered glass was designed to withstand blunt force, but the hardness of the ceramic created a focused point of pressure that shattered the structure instantly. Pope didn't need to understand it completely, he just needed it to work.
He glanced around. The security guard was near the entrance, distracted by his phone. The tellers were busy with customers. Pope pulled out the spark plug, wound up, and swung.
The sound was louder than he expected, a sharp crack followed by the cascading tinkle of safety glass collapsing into a thousand pieces. For a moment, everything froze. Then chaos.
Someone screamed. The security guard's head snapped up. But Pope was already moving, hands plunging into the display case, grabbing banded stacks of hundreds and fifties. His duffel bag opened like a hungry mouth, swallowing the cash. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
"Hey! HEY!"
The guard was coming, hand fumbling for his radio. Pope grabbed one more stack, zipped the bag, and ran. Not toward the front entrance, that was suicide. He’d mapped the back exit, the one the employees used, the one that led to the alley. His legs pumped, adrenaline singing in his veins.
He hit the alley at full speed, turned left, and sprinted three blocks to where the Honda waited. Keys in the ignition. Engine turning over smooth and clean. He pulled into traffic like he had all the time in the world, just another Oceanside resident going about his day.
In the rearview mirror, no sirens yet. No pursuit. Pope’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel. Not from fear, from the rush. The duffel bag on the passenger seat was heavy with cash, maybe fifteen or twenty thousand if he'd guessed right.
He thought about your face when he told you about the money tonight. The way your eyes would go wide. The way you’d finally understand that he meant it when he said he’d do anything for you.
Pope ditched the Honda in a grocery store parking lot and walked four blocks to where the second car waited. He transferred the duffel bag, checked his watch. 9:34 AM.
The second robbery went smoother.
Pope had learned from the first one, move faster, hit harder, don't hesitate. The Coastal Credit Union was smaller, less security, more vulnerable. He walked in at 11:15 AM, two hours after the first hit, and went straight for the ATM vestibule where they kept the cash reserves.
Another spark plug. Another swing. Glass exploded like a gunshot.
This time he didn’t wait for the screaming to start. He grabbed what he could, stacks of twenties, fifties, hundreds, and was out the side door before anyone could react. The Camry was parked close, engine running in his mind even though he’d shut it off. Muscle memory carried him through the escape, autopilot born of planning and necessity.
By the time the first police car arrived, Pope was already five miles away, merging onto the 76, heading east before doubling back south. The duffel bag was heavier now. Maybe thirty-five, forty thousand total. He was ahead of schedule.
But the police scanners he’d been monitoring were starting to chatter. Two bank robberies in Oceanside, same MO, suspect using spark plugs to break glass. They were connecting the dots faster than he’d hoped.
Pope ditched the Camry in a residential neighborhood and walked to car number three, a Ford Focus, dark blue, parked behind an abandoned warehouse. He sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, breathing hard, letting the adrenaline cycle through his system.
He pulled out his phone and looked at your picture. The one from earlier in the summer, your hair blowing in the ocean breeze, smiling like you didn’t have a care in the world. That’s what he was buying with this money, freedom from care. Freedom from the grinding poverty that turned people into ghosts. Freedom from whatever was bothering you. Pope put the phone away and started the engine.
By noon, the city was buzzing with news of the robberies. Pope could feel it in the air, that electric tension that came when people realized something dangerous was happening in their safe little world. He drove past two police cars on his way to Pacific Trust, both of them heading in the opposite direction, lights flashing.
They were looking for him, but they didn’t know where he’d strike next. That was his advantage, speed, unpredictability, the willingness to push when everyone else would pull back.
Pacific Trust was in a strip mall, sandwiched between a nail salon and a pizza place. More cameras here, more foot traffic. Riskier. But the cash displays were visible from the street, practically begging to be hit.
Pope parked the Focus two blocks away and walked. His third spark plug was in his right hand, concealed by his sleeve. His heart was hammering now, not from fear but from the accumulation of adrenaline, the way it built up in your system like a drug you couldn't quite metabolize.
He pushed through the glass doors at 12:23 PM.
The bank was busy, lunch hour, people depositing checks, withdrawing cash for the weekend. Pope moved through the crowd like a shark through shallow water. Purposeful. Predatory. He reached the display case and didn’t hesitate.
The spark plug swung. Glass shattered. Money appeared.
This time, someone tried to stop him, a middle-aged man in a business suit, some kind of hero complex overriding his common sense. Pope shoved him hard, sent him sprawling into a velvet rope barrier. The man went down with a yelp. Pope grabbed cash with both hands, stuffing it into the duffel bag, not even counting anymore, just taking everything he could reach.
A security guard was coming, younger than the first one, faster. Pope saw him reaching for something on his belt, pepper spray, maybe a taser. Not good. Pope zipped the bag and ran, shouldering through the crowd, ignoring the screams and shouts. The guard was behind him, closing the distance.
Pope hit the parking lot at full speed and made a decision. Instead of running to the Focus, he cut left, sprinted through the strip mall, vaulted a low fence, and disappeared into a residential neighborhood. The guard couldn’t follow, too slow, too committed to protecting the bank instead of chasing suspects into unknown territory.
Pope circled back, breathing hard, and reached the Focus from a different direction. No one had followed. No one had seen. He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled into traffic with his hands shaking so hard he could barely grip the wheel.
Three down. Three to go. The duffel bag was getting heavy, maybe sixty, seventy thousand now. He was past the halfway point in every sense that mattered.
But the police presence was intensifying. He could hear it on the scanner, units being repositioned, roadblocks being discussed, helicopters being requested. They knew someone was hitting banks across Oceanside in a coordinated spree. They just didn’t know who, or where he’d strike next.
Pope ditched the Focus and walked to car number four, a Nissan Altima, gray, parked in a church parking lot. He sat in the driver’s seat and checked his phone. 1:47 PM. The day was slipping away. He needed to move faster.
He thought about you again. About why he was doing this. The money wasn't abstract anymore, it was real, tangible, heavy in the bag beside him. This was your future. your future together. A chance to disappear, to start over somewhere the Cody name didn’t carry the weight of a criminal history.
Pope started the Altima and headed for bank number four. The fourth robbery was when things started to go wrong.
Oceanside Federal was in the business district, surrounded by office buildings and restaurants. More witnesses, more cameras, more risk. But it also had more money, Pope had seen the cash displays, the promotional materials, the signs advertising high-balance accounts. This was where the real score waited.
He parked the Altima three blocks away and walked, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he was just another guy running errands. The spark plug was in his pocket, the fourth one, the ceramic tip still sharp and deadly.
Pope pushed through the doors at 3:15 PM and immediately knew something was off. There were too many people in suits, too many eyes tracking movement. Had they increased security? Were they expecting him?
No time to second-guess. He moved toward the display cases, hand closing around the spark plug. This was the moment, commit or retreat. Pope had never been good at retreating. He swung. Glass exploded. Alarms shrieked. And this time, the response was immediate.
Two security guards converged on him from different directions, moving with military precision. Pope grabbed what cash he could, but there wasn't time for the careful collection he’d managed at the other banks. He snatched three, four bundles and ran, the guards right behind him.
The front entrance was blocked. Pope pivoted, headed for the back, but one of the guards was faster than he looked. A hand grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. Pope reacted on instinct, threw an elbow, connected with something soft, heard a grunt of pain. The guard went down.
Pope ran.
Out the back door, into an alley, the duffel bag bouncing against his hip. Behind him, shouting. Radio chatter. The sound of pursuit. He sprinted three blocks, lungs burning, legs screaming, and dove into the Altima. The engine roared to life. He pulled into traffic just as a police car turned onto the street behind him.
For thirty seconds, Pope thought it was over. The cop car was closing, lights flashing. But then it turned off, heading in a different direction, responding to a different call. Pope had gotten lucky. Again.
He ditched the Altima in a residential area and walked to car number five, a Honda Accord, white, parked near a elementary school. His hands were still shaking. The fourth robbery had been too close, too chaotic. He’d gotten maybe another fifteen thousand, bringing the total to somewhere around eighty-five grand. Close, but not enough. Not yet.
Pope sat in the Accord and tried to calm his breathing. The police scanner was going crazy now, multiple units responding to Oceanside Federal, descriptions being circulated, roadblocks being set up on major arteries. They were closing the net.
He checked his phone. 4:02 PM. The sun would set in a few hours. He had two more banks to hit, and the entire Oceanside PD was looking for him.
Pope thought about stopping. About taking what he had and running. Eighty-five thousand was good money. Life-changing money. But it wasn’t enough. Not for what you deserved. He started the Accord and headed for bank number five.
The fifth robbery was an act of desperation disguised as confidence.
Seaside Savings was near the coast, a small branch that catered to retirees and tourists. Less security, less money, but also less risk. Pope needed a win after the chaos at Oceanside Federal. He needed to prove to himself that he could still do this.
He parked the Accord two blocks away and walked to the bank, the fifth spark plug in his hand. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the pavement. The day was running out. Time was running out.
Pope pushed through the doors at 5:34 PM.
The bank was nearly empty, just two tellers and a handful of customers. The display cases were smaller here, less cash visible. But Pope was committed. He’d come too far to stop now.
He moved to the nearest case and swung the spark plug.
Alarms wailed. Pope grabbed what he could, smaller bundles, twenties and fifties mostly, not the hundreds he’d been hoping for. Maybe five thousand, maybe less. He stuffed them into the duffel bag and ran.
No security guards this time. No pursuit. Just the sound of sirens in the distance, getting closer. Pope made it to the Accord and pulled into traffic, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst through his chest.
Five down. One to go. The duffel bag was heavy now, maybe ninety-five thousand, close to the goal but not quite there. One more bank. One more robbery. Then he could go to you, hand you the money, and watch your face light up with the realization of how much he loves you.
Pope ditched the Accord in a parking garage and walked to the sixth and final car, a Chevy Malibu, black, parked in an alley behind a liquor store. This was it. The last vehicle. The last robbery. The last chance to make this work.
He sat in the Malibu and checked the scanner. The police were everywhere now, coordinating a city-wide search, setting up checkpoints, pulling over vehicles that matched the descriptions. They knew he was using multiple cars. They knew he was hitting banks in a pattern. They still didn’t know where he’d strike next.
Pope looked at the last spark plug, the sixth one, the ceramic tip still intact. One more swing. One more explosion of glass. One more armful of cash.
Then it would be over.
He started the Malibu and headed for the final bank. Harbor Trust was the biggest risk of all.
It was in downtown Oceanside, surrounded by shops and restaurants, with heavy foot traffic even at dusk. The police presence was visible, two patrol cars parked within a block, officers on foot, eyes scanning the crowd. They were expecting him. Maybe not here specifically, but somewhere. They knew he wasn’t done.
Pope parked the Malibu four blocks away and walked, the duffel bag over his shoulder, the last spark plug in his pocket. His legs felt like lead. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. The adrenaline that had carried him through the first five robberies was curdling into something darker, exhaustion, desperation, the creeping certainty that his luck was about to run out.
But he just kept thinking about you. About the promise he’d made to deran to take care of you. About the life you could have if he just pushed through this last one.
Pope reached Harbor Trust at 7:18 PM, just as the sun was setting over the Pacific. The bank was still open, lights blazing, customers inside. He could see the display cases through the windows, large ones, full of cash, the biggest score of the day if he could pull it off.
He pushed through the doors.
The bank was busy, people making last-minute deposits before the weekend. Pope moved through the crowd, invisible again, just another face in the sea of faces. He reached the largest display case and pulled out the spark plug.
This was it. The moment everything came together or fell apart. Pope swung. The glass exploded with a sound like a gunshot. Alarms shrieked. People screamed. And Pope grabbed cash with both hands, stuffing it into the duffel bag, not caring about the cameras or the witnesses or the police cars outside. This was the last one. This was everything.
A security guard appeared, younger and faster than the others, reaching for his radio. Pope shoved past him, the duffel bag heavy and awkward. The front entrance was blocked by panicking customers. Pope pivoted, headed for the side exit, but the guard was right behind him.
"Stop! Police!"
Pope didn’t stop. He hit the side door at full speed, burst into the alley, and ran. Behind him, the guard was shouting into his radio, calling for backup. Pope sprinted three blocks, lungs burning, vision tunneling, and dove into the Malibu.
The engine started. He pulled into traffic. And then he saw them, two police cars, lights flashing, converging on his position from different directions.
Pope made a split-second decision. Instead of running, he turned into a residential neighborhood, killed the lights, and parked behind a row of dumpsters. He sat in the darkness, breathing hard, listening to the sirens pass by on the main street. They were looking for a moving vehicle, not a parked one. They were looking for someone running, not someone hiding.
For five minutes, Pope sat in the darkness and waited. The sirens faded. The police cars moved on. He got out changing the plates on the car quickly with extras he’d stashed incase. And slowly, carefully, he started the Malibu and drove away, taking side streets and back roads, avoiding the main arteries where the checkpoints would be. He’d done it. Six banks. Six robberies. One day. The duffel bag on the passenger seat was heavy with cash, over a hundred thousand dollars, maybe closer to a hundred and twenty. More than enough.
Pope drove to swap to his truck before driving back to his apartment. His hands were still shaking. His heart was still racing. But he'd done it. For you. All for you.
The coffee shop was busy enough that you barely had time to think. Which was good. Thinking had become dangerous lately.
Every quiet moment seemed to lead back to your father. Back to the fifty thousand dollars. Back to the growing knot of dread sitting permanently in your chest. Every time your phone buzzed, your stomach dropped. Every time it didn’t, you somehow felt worse. You were exhausted from carrying a problem you couldn’t solve.
“Medium vanilla latte for Sarah!”
You slid the drink across the counter with a practiced smile. The customer thanked you and disappeared into the crowd.
The morning rush was finally beginning to die down when your coworker grabbed the remote and turned up the television mounted in the corner of the shop.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “What the hell?”
A few customers looked up. You glanced over absentmindedly while wiping down the espresso machine.
The local news anchor looked unusually serious. “…continuing coverage this morning after an unprecedented string of robberies occurred across Southern California.”
Your eyebrows furrowed slightly. The screen shifted to footage of police cars and yellow tape outside a bank. Then another. Then another. You stopped wiping. “What happened?”
Your coworker pointed toward the television “Apparently somebody hit six different banks.”
“What?”
The anchor continued speaking. “Authorities have confirmed six locations were targeted over an eight-hour period. Investigators believe the incidents are connected and are searching for those responsible.”
Several customers started talking amongst themselves. Someone whistled.
“Six?”
“No way.”
“How do you even do that?”
You shook your head. “That’s insane.”
The footage continued rolling while reporters spoke over images of flashing lights and crowded sidewalks.
There wasn’t much information yet. No suspects. No real details. Just confusion. Lots and lots of confusion. The sheer scale of it seemed to have everyone stunned.
“People are nuts,” your coworker said.
You nodded absentmindedly. Your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Because while everyone else was talking about robberies, all you could think about was money.
Fifty thousand dollars. The number seemed to follow you everywhere now. Every conversation. Every thought. Every sleepless night.
The television kept playing in the background while you worked. Customers came and went. Drinks were made. Hours passed.
But the story kept reappearing. Every update. Every breaking news alert. Every reporter standing outside another bank. By lunchtime even you were tired of hearing about it.
“Still talking about that?” you asked.
Your manager laughed. “Six banks in eight hours? They’re gonna be talking about that for weeks.”
You grimaced. “Great.”
The story faded into background noise after that. Just another terrible thing happening somewhere else in the world.
By the end of your shift, you barely thought about it anymore. Your father was a much more immediate problem. Much more real. Much harder to ignore.
When you finally left work that evening, exhausted and emotionally drained, the news was still playing on televisions across town. Everyone was still trying to figure out who could have done something so ridiculous.
Meanwhile, several miles away, Pope sat quietly on the couch waiting for you to come home. The television in his apartment was off. The news coverage had been off all day. He hadn’t watched a second of it. He didn’t need to. He already knew exactly what they were talking about.
His attention shifted toward the door when he heard your keys jingle outside. Immediately. Everything else disappeared.
The door opened. You walked inside looking tired.
The sight of you instantly softened something in his expression. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
You kicked off your shoes. Dropped your bag. Then collapsed onto the couch beside him.
Pope’s arm immediately wrapped around your shoulders. You melted into his side without thinking. For the first time all day, your chest loosened slightly.
“Long day?”
You sighed. “The longest.”
Pope nodded and pressed a kiss into your hair. Neither of you mentioned the news. Neither of you mentioned the robberies.
And while you spent the evening worrying about how you were going to save your father, Pope sat beside you carrying a secret so absurd that if you ever found out, you’d probably lose your mind.
The shower you decided to take did absolutely nothing to help. You stood beneath the hot water until the bathroom mirror fogged completely over, your forehead resting against the tile as you tried to think through the mess your life had become. Every solution seemed impossible. Your father needed fifty thousand dollars. You didn’t have fifty thousand dollars. Medical school certainly wasn’t paying you fifty thousand dollars. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice again.
You’re all I have. If they kill me-
You shut the water off before the thought could finish. Your chest hurt. Your head hurt. You were tired of feeling helpless. Tired of sitting around while everyone else in your life seemed capable of fixing things.
The idea came to you while you were drying your hair. It was stupid. Actually stupid. But the more you thought about it, the more it made sense.
The boys always had money. Not normal amounts of money either. Money that appeared out of nowhere. Money that somehow paid for bars and apartments and trucks and everything else.
You accepting that whatever they did, it was better for your sanity not to know. But maybe, maybe this once if you helped on a job. Maybe you could earn enough to help your father. You immediately hated the idea. But you hated feeling useless more.
Twenty minutes later, you found yourself standing in front of the bedroom mirror wearing a white lace camisole and matching sleep shorts.
Not because you were trying to seduce Pope. Mostly. Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly because Pope was significantly easier to approach when he was distracted by how pretty you looked. That felt manipulative. You decided not to think about it.
The apartment was quiet when you walked out. Pope sat on the couch exactly where you’d left him earlier. One arm stretched across the back cushions. Television playing. Attention nowhere near the television. His eyes immediately lifted when he heard you.
You swallowed. Suddenly nervous.
Pope frowned slightly. “You okay?”
You walked over slowly. “Maybe.” That answer did not help. His eyebrows pulled together. You stopped directly in front of him. Then stepped between his knees.
Pope immediately looked suspicious. Very suspicious. The kind of suspicious that said he’d known you long enough to recognize when you were building up to something. “What?” You smiled nervously. “What?”
You looked away. Then back. Then away again. Pope’s hands settled on your hips automatically. “What?” The third what came with significantly more concern.
You sighed. “I need a favor.”
Pope’s expression immediately softened. “Okay.”
“No questions?”
“No.”
Your heart squeezed. God. You loved him. “Well…” You shifted awkwardly. “Maybe ask one question.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kinda favor?” You winced. Pope noticed immediately. And suddenly looked much less relaxed. “Bambi.”
You looked down. “What if…” you started carefully. “What if I helped you guys with a job?”
Silence. Complete silence. The television continued playing behind him. Neither of you heard it. Pope stared. You stared back.
The softness disappeared from his face so quickly it almost startled you. “What?”
You rushed forward. “Not forever.”
“No.”
“Andrew-“
“No.”
“I haven't even explained-“
“No.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You don't know what I'm asking for.”
“I do.”
“No, you don't.”
“I do.” His hands fell away from your waist. Now he looked irritated. Actually irritated. Which wasn’t what you'd expected.
“I need money.”
“No.”
“I could help.”
“No.”
“You didn't even let me finish.”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
You threw your hands up. “Oh my God.” Pope stood. Now you were annoyed too. “You guys do one job and make more money than I've seen in my entire life.”
“No.”
“I'm serious.”
“No.”
“You don't even know what I was gonna say.”
“I fucking know enough.” His voice had gotten sharper. Not angry. Scared.
You recognized the difference. “I could drive the car.”
“No.”
“I could be lookout.”
“No.”
“I could-“
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“No.”
You groaned loudly. Pope rubbed a hand over his face. Like he couldn't believe this conversation was happening. “You think I'm gonna let you do that?”
“I'm not helpless.”
“I know.”
“Then what's the problem?”
His laugh sounded genuinely offended. “The problem?”
“Yes.”
“The problem is you're talking like I would ever let you anywhere near that.”
You blinked. “Oh.” You crossed your arms. “I need money.”
The second the words left your mouth, something shifted in Pope's expression.
Concern replacing irritation. There it was. The real issue. The thing underneath everything. Your shoulders slumped. “I need money, Andrew.”
Pope stared at you for a long moment. Then suddenly moved. Before you could react, he bent down, grabbed you around the waist, and hauled you over his shoulder.
You yelped. “Andrew!”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“No.”
“Put me down.”
“No.”
You smacked his back. Hard. He ignored you. Of course he ignored you. “Andrew!” You couldn't help laughing despite yourself. Pope carried you down the hallway. Past your bedroom. Past the bathroom. Toward the spare room. The room he never used. The room that stayed closed most of the time.
Your eyebrows furrowed. “What are we doing?”
Pope opened the door. Then unceremoniously dumped you onto the bed. You bounced once. Twice. Then froze. Cash. Cash everywhere. Bundles. Stacks. Piles. The entire room looked like a financial institution had exploded.
Your brain stopped working. “What.”
Pope crossed his arms. You looked at him. Then the money. Then him again. Then the money.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What.”
Pope looked annoyingly calm about the entire thing. “I got you money.”
You stared. For several seconds. Your brain struggling to catch up. Your eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
Pope immediately looked concerned. “What?”
“You.” Pope froze. A very guilty-looking freeze. Your jaw dropped. “Andrew.” He said nothing. “Oh my God.” His silence was answer enough. “Andrew.” Pope looked at the ceiling. You stared at him. Then at the money. Then back at him. “That was you.” Still silence. “Oh my God.”
Pope finally looked back at you. You couldn't tell if you wanted to laugh or cry. Or scream. Or all three.
“I was trying to help you.” The sincerity in his voice made you put both hands over your face. Because somehow that made it worse. Not better. Worse.
“You thought I needed…” You gestured wildly around the room. “…all of this?”
“You were upset.”
You laughed. A completely hysterical sound. “You committed a felony because I was upset.”
Pope frowned. “More than one.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Completely serious. And somehow, despite everything, despite the absurdity of the situation, despite the fact you were currently sitting in a mountain of cash looking at the world's most devoted psychopath, You started laughing. Which was not the reaction Pope had been expecting.
The laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, uncontrollable and slightly manic. You laughed until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, until your stomach hurt, until you had to wrap your arms around yourself just to hold it together. Pope stood there watching you, his expression unreadable, his body still, and that somehow made it funnier. The fact that he'd robbed six places in eight hours because you'd been sad. The fact that he'd brought home enough cash to fill an entire room. The fact that he was standing there looking at you like you were the crazy one.
“You're insane,” you gasped between laughs, wiping at your eyes. “You're actually insane.”
Pope's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't move. Didn't defend himself. Just watched you with those dark, intense eyes that never seemed to miss anything.
“I can't believe you-“ Another laugh cut you off. “Six robberies. Six. Because I was upset.”
“You needed help.” The simplicity of his answer made you laugh harder. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like committing multiple felonies was a completely reasonable response to your emotional distress.
“Andrew,” you managed, trying to catch your breath. “This is-this is-“
You couldn't even finish the sentence. Pope's expression shifted slightly. Something darker flickering across his face. Something that made your laughter catch in your throat. He was still riding the adrenaline from it, you realized. Still hopped up on whatever energy had carried him through those robberies. You could see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his hands flexed at his sides, in the dangerous glint in his eyes.
He moved suddenly. Before you could react, he was on you, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you down flat onto the bed. Cash scattered around you, bills rustling and sliding across the comforter as Pope positioned himself between your legs. Your laughter died immediately, replaced by a sharp intake of breath as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your sleep shorts higher.
“Andrew-“
His eyes met yours. Dark. Hungry. Still dangerous. “You think it's funny?”
His voice was low, rough, edged with something that made heat pool low in your belly.
“I-“
Pope's hands hooked into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanked them down in one smooth motion. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, but he was already moving, already settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin.
“You're laughing,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “At me robbing six fucking places for you.”
“Andrew, I didn't mean-“
His mouth was on you before you could finish. No warning. No buildup. Just his tongue flat against you, licking a long, slow stripe that made your back arch off the bed and a broken moan tear from your throat. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the curly strands as Pope's hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open for him, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
He ate you out like a man starving. Like he needed it. Like the adrenaline still coursing through his system had nowhere else to go except into this-into claiming you, marking you, making you feel exactly what he'd done for you. His tongue worked you with an intensity that stole your breath, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit that had you gasping and writhing beneath him.
“Oh God-“ Your voice broke on a moan as Pope's tongue circled your clit, then sucked it into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, almost too much, and you tried to close your legs on instinct but Pope's hands tightened on your thighs, forced them wider, held you completely open and exposed to him.
Cash rustled beneath you with every movement, bills scattering and sliding as you writhed. The sound of it-the physical reminder of what he'd done, what he'd risked, what he'd brought home for you-made everything more intense. Pope groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body, and you realized he was getting off on this. On having you spread out on top of the money he'd stolen for you. On making you fall apart while surrounded by evidence of his devotion.
“Andrew-please-“ You didn't even know what you were begging for. More. Less. Something.
Pope's response was to slide two fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly as his mouth continued its assault on your clit. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his face, and Pope made a sound that was almost feral-possessive and hungry and completely uncontrolled.
He fucked you with his fingers while his tongue worked your clit with single-minded focus. The wet sounds were obscene, mixing with your gasps and moans and the constant rustle of cash beneath you. Pope's free hand slid up your body, pushed your camisole up and over your breasts, then his palm flattened against your stomach, holding you down, keeping you pinned while he took what he wanted.
“I can't-“ You gasped, your thighs trembling. “Andrew, I can't-“
Pope pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough and wrecked. “You can.”
Then his mouth was back on you, more aggressive than before, his fingers pumping faster, harder, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough that it had to hurt, but Pope just groaned and doubled his efforts. He was relentless, merciless, using his mouth and fingers to take you apart piece by piece.
The pressure built impossibly fast, coiling tight in your belly, spreading through your whole body until you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel. Pope's tongue flicked rapidly against your clit and his fingers curled inside you and suddenly you were coming, your body arching off the bed as the orgasm crashed through you in waves that left you shaking and gasping his name.
Pope didn't stop. Didn't slow down. He worked you through it, his mouth gentler now but still insistent, drawing out every last aftershock until you were oversensitive and trembling, trying weakly to push his head away.
“Too much-“
Pope finally pulled back, but only far enough to look at you. His face was wet, his eyes wild and dark, his chest heaving with rough breaths. He looked dangerous. Feral. Like the adrenaline still hadn't worn off, like he was still riding that high and you were the only thing that could satisfy it.
Cash was scattered everywhere around you now, some bills stuck to your sweat-dampened skin, others crumpled beneath you. You were completely wrecked, your body still trembling with aftershocks, your mind struggling to process what had just happened.
Pope's hands slid up your thighs again, his grip possessive, claiming. “Not done with you.” His voice was rough, raw, edged with promise.
You looked up at him, at the dangerous glint in his eyes, at the tension in his body, at the way he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you all over again, and felt heat pool low in your belly despite having just come.
“Andrew-“
He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still gripping your thigh. “Gonna fuck you into this cash,” he said, his voice low and dark. “Gonna make sure you feel exactly what I did for you.”
Your breath caught. Pope's eyes searched yours, looking for hesitation, for doubt. He found none. Only heat. Only want. Only complete surrender to whatever he wanted to do to you.
“Please,” you whispered.
And Pope's expression turned absolutely predatory.
Pope held you tightly the cash strewn all around you. His voice was soft when he said your name. Careful. You looked at him. Then immediately looked away. Your throat felt too tight. Pope's thumbs rubbed small circles against your hip. “What happened?”
You shook your head. Not because you didn't want to tell him. Because you didn't know how. How did you explain that your father was going to die and it was going to be your fault? How did you explain that you'd spent your entire life trying to make up for something you'd never actually done, and now the bill was finally coming due?
“Sweetheart.” Pope's hand moved to your chin, gently tilting your face back toward his. “Talk to me.”
Your eyes burned. “My dad.”
Pope's expression shifted immediately. Something hardening in his jaw. He'd never liked your father. Never said it outright, but you'd seen it in the way he tensed whenever you mentioned him. In the way his eyes went flat when your father called. “What about him?”
You swallowed hard. “He owes money.” Pope waited. “To bad people. Really bad people. He-“ Your voice cracked. “He called me. He was crying. He said they're going to kill him if he doesn't pay them back.”
Pope's hands stilled on your knees. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
Pope's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “When?”
“Two weeks.”
“And if he doesn't pay?” You couldn't say it. Couldn't make yourself say the words out loud. Pope's hands moved to your face, cradling it gently. “Hey. Look at me.” You did. His eyes were dark. Intense. Completely focused on you. “We'll figure it out.”
The certainty in his voice made something crack open in your chest. All the fear and panic and guilt you'd been holding back came flooding out in a rush. You started crying. Not the quiet, controlled kind of crying. The ugly, desperate kind that made your whole body shake.
Pope pulled you into his arms immediately. You buried your face against his chest and sobbed. “I can't-“ you gasped. “I can't let him die.”
Pope's hand moved to the back of your head, holding you against him. “You won't.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then tell me.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your face was wet. Your eyes swollen. You probably looked like a mess but Pope just looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. “It's my fault.”
Pope frowned. “What's your fault?”
“My mom.”
His expression shifted. Confusion flickering across his face. "”You said your mom died years ago.”
“I know.”
“From an overdose.”
“I know.”
Pope's hands settled on your shoulders. “Bambi. That wasn't your fault.”
You shook your head. “He said it was.”
Silence. Complete silence. Pope stared at you. You could see him processing. See the pieces clicking together in his mind.
“What?” Your voice came out small. Broken. “He said she started taking pills because of me. Because I was difficult. Because I stressed her out. He said-“ You had to stop. Had to breathe. “He said if I'd been better, she wouldn't have needed them. She wouldn't have gotten addicted. She'd still be alive.”
Pope's hands tightened on your shoulders. “When did he tell you that?”
“After she died.”
“You were sixteen.”
“I know.”
“Jesus Christ.” Pope's voice had gone flat. Dangerous. You'd heard that tone before. Usually right before he did something that ended with someone in the hospital. “He's been holding that over you this whole time?”
You nodded. Pope's jaw worked. You could see him trying to control his reaction. Trying not to scare you with whatever was happening behind his eyes.
“And now he's asking you for money.” It wasn't a question.
“He needs help.”
“He's manipulating you.”
“Andrew-“
“He's using your guilt to get money out of you.”
“You don't know that.”
Pope's laugh was harsh. “Yeah. I do.”
You pulled away from him. Suddenly defensive. Suddenly angry. “He's my father.”
“He's a piece of shit.”
“He's scared.”
“He's a liar.”
“You don't know him.”
Pope stood up. Ran a hand through his hair. Turned away from you. You could see the tension in his shoulders. See him fighting to keep his temper in check.
“Andrew.” He didn't turn around. “He's going to die if I don't help him.”
Pope's hands flexed at his sides. “And you think that's your responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“Because he told you your mom's death was your fault.”
“Yes.”
“Even though it wasn't.”
You didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because some part of you, the part that had been sixteen and terrified and desperate for someone to tell you it wasn't your fault, still believed him. Still carried that guilt like a weight you'd never be able to put down.
Pope finally turned back to you. His expression had shifted. Still angry. But softer now. Sadder. He sat down in front of you. “Sweetheart.” You looked at him. “Your mom's addiction wasn't your fault.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“You didn't know her.”
“I know you.” His hands found yours. Squeezed. “And I know there's no version of you that could have caused that. You were a kid. You didn't do anything wrong.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. You started crying again. Pope pulled you back into his arms and held you while you fell apart. He didn't try to fix it. Didn't try to make you stop crying. Just held you and let you break and promised you over and over that it wasn't your fault.
Eventually, you ran out of tears. You sat there in Pope's arms, exhausted and hollow, your face pressed against his chest. “I need to help him.”
Pope's hand moved through your hair. “Okay.”
“I don't know how.”
“We can use the money I got for you.”
You pulled back to look at him. “You mean that?”
Pope's eyes met yours. “Yeah.”
Something in his expression made you believe him. Made you think maybe-just maybe-everything would be okay.
He helped you up off the bed. Led you to your actual bed. Held you until you finally fell asleep, your body exhausted from crying, your mind too tired to keep spiraling.
Pope stayed awake. He watched you sleep. Watched the way your face relaxed. Watched the tension leave your shoulders. Watched you look peaceful for the first time in days. And while he watched, something cold and calculating settled over him.
Your father had done this to you. Had spent years convincing you that your mother's death was your fault. Had weaponized your guilt. Had called you crying about debts and threats and danger, knowing exactly how you'd react.
Pope had seen manipulation before. Had grown up around it. Knew what it looked like. This was textbook. And he was going to prove it. He waited until he was sure you were deep asleep. Then he carefully removed himself from the bed, grabbed his phone, and went into the living room. He sat on the couch in the dark and started searching.
Your father's name. His address. His social media. His job. Everything.
Pope was methodical about research. Always had been. It was one of the things that made him good at what he did. He knew how to find information. Knew how to piece together a picture of someone's life from scattered details.
By the time the sun started coming up, Pope had a pretty clear picture. And none of it matched what your father had told you.
No signs of panic. No signs of someone scrambling to come up with fifty thousand dollars. No signs of someone whose life was in danger. Just a man living beyond his means. A man with a wife twenty years younger than him. A man who'd been borrowing money from you for years. Pope's jaw tightened. He looked back toward the bedroom. Toward you. Still sleeping. Still believing your father's lies.
Still carrying guilt that had never been yours to carry. Pope made a decision. He was going to find out the truth. All of it. And when he did, when he proved your father was lying, he was going to make sure the man never hurt you again.
Pope had been gone for three days. You'd barely slept. Barely eaten. You'd spent most of the time sitting on the couch staring at your phone, waiting for your father to call again. Waiting for him to tell you time was running out. Waiting for him to tell you they were coming for him.
The call never came. That should have been a relief. Instead it made the anxiety worse.
When Pope walked through the door, you practically jumped off the couch.
“Where have you been?”
Pope set his keys down. Looked at you. Really looked at you. You could see him taking inventory. The dark circles under your eyes. The way your clothes hung looser than they had a few days ago. The tremor in your hands.
His jaw tightened. “We need to talk.”
Something in his voice made your stomach drop. “What's wrong?”
Pope crossed the room and took your hand. Led you back to the couch. Sat down beside you. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, but his expression was unreadable. Calm on the surface. Something dangerous underneath. “I looked into your father.”
Your heart stopped. “What?”
“I looked into him. His life. His finances. Everything.”
“Andrew-“
“There's no debt.” The words hit you like a physical blow.
You stared at him. “What?”
Pope's thumb moved across your knuckles. “There are no dangerous people. Nobody's threatening him. Nobody's going to kill him.”
“That's not-“
“He lied.”
The room tilted. You pulled your hand away from Pope's. “No.”
“Sweetheart-“
“No. You're wrong. He was crying. He was terrified. He-“
“He was acting.” Pope's voice stayed calm. Steady. But you could see the rage building behind his eyes. “I spent three days watching him. Following him. Looking into his accounts. His social media. Everything.” Pope leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He's not in danger. He's living a life he can't afford.”
Your chest felt tight. “What are you talking about?”
“He has a wife. Twenty years younger than him. Three kids. A house that costs more than he makes in two years.” Pope's hands flexed. “He gambles. He buys expensive suits. He goes out to dinner four times a week. He's bleeding money and instead of cutting back, he calls you.”
You couldn't breathe. “That's not-“
“He's been doing it for years. Different stories. Different emergencies. Always just enough to keep you sending money without asking too many questions. He keeps a book in his office cataloging the money you’ve sent him over the years.” The words kept coming. Each one landing like a punch. “He doesn't owe anyone anything. He just wants you to keep funding his lifestyle.”
Your hands started shaking. “He said they were going to kill him.”
“He lied.” Pope's expression shifted. Something dark flickering across his face. “He's a piece of shit who's been using you.”
The anger came suddenly. Violently. You stood up. Pope stood with you. “I've been-“ Your voice cracked. “I've been destroying myself for years. I haven't slept. I haven't eaten. I was going to-“ You couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't admit out loud that you'd been considering asking Smurf of all people to let you help on a job. That you'd been willing to risk everything. For nothing. For a lie.
“He told me my mom died because of me.” Pope's hands curled into fists. “He's been holding that over my head for years. Making me feel like I owed him. Like I had to make up for what I did.” Your voice was rising now. Getting louder. “And this whole time he's been lying. He's been using me. He's been-“
You couldn't finish. The rage was too big. Too consuming. “He deserves to die.” The words came out before you could stop them.
Pope went very still. You looked at him. At the way his expression had shifted. Gone quiet. “I mean it,” you said. Your voice shook but the words were steady. “After everything he's done. Everything he's put me through. He deserves to die.”
Pope stared at you. Something passed between you. Something unspoken. Something that felt like understanding. Then Pope stepped forward and pulled you into his arms. You collapsed against his chest. Started crying. Not the desperate, panicked crying from before.
This was different. This was rage and grief and betrayal all mixed together. Pope held you through it. One hand in your hair. The other pressed against your back. His chin resting on top of your head. But his eyes His eyes had gone somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
When you finally pulled back, Pope's hands moved to your face. He looked at you for a long moment. Then he kissed your forehead. “I'm gonna take care of it.”
You didn't ask what he meant. Some part of you already knew. Pope held you a little longer.
The next two days, Pope was different. Not distant. Not cold. Just... settled.
Like something inside him had clicked into place and locked. You didn't notice at first because he was still gentle with you. Still patient. Still the same steady presence he'd always been. He made you tea in the mornings. Pulled you into his lap when you got quiet. Kissed your forehead when you cried. But there was something underneath it now. Something you couldn't quite name.
A stillness that felt less like calm and more like waiting. Pope had always been good at compartmentalizing. It was a survival skill.
Something he'd learned young and perfected over years of doing things most people couldn't stomach. He could hold you while you fell apart and simultaneously plan what came next. He could brush your hair back from your face with hands that had done terrible things and would do terrible things again. It didn't conflict for him. It never had. Protecting you wasn't separate from the violence. It was the same thing.
The first night after he told you the truth, you cried yourself to sleep against his chest. Pope stayed awake. One arm wrapped around you. The other resting on your hip. His thumb moved in slow circles against your skin while his mind worked through logistics. Timing. Location. How to make sure nobody would interrupt.
He wasn't angry anymore. Anger was too hot. Too reactive. This was colder. More certain.
Your father had looked at you, his own daughter, and decided you were useful. Decided your love was something he could weaponize. Decided your guilt was something he could mine for profit. He'd made you believe you killed your mother. Made you carry that weight. Made you think saving him was the only way to atone for something that was never your fault.
Pope had watched you break under it. And now he was going to make sure it never happened again.
The second day, you noticed his hands. Not because they were shaking. Because they weren't. Pope's hands were always steady, but this was different. This was the kind of steady that came before action. Before commitment. You were sitting at the kitchen counter while he made breakfast, and you watched him crack eggs into a bowl with the same methodical precision he did everything. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
“You okay?”
He glanced up. His expression softened immediately when he looked at you. “Yeah, sweetheart.”
“You've been quiet.”
Pope set the bowl down and came around the counter. He stepped between your knees and cupped your face in both hands. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. His eyes stayed on yours. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he leaned down and kissed you. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorizing the taste of you. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “About making sure you're safe.”
Something in his voice made your chest tighten. Not fear. Something else. Something that felt like recognition. Like some part of you understood what he wasn't saying.
That night, Pope held you until you fell asleep again. Your head on his chest. His heartbeat steady under your ear. One of his hands tangled in your hair while the other rested against your back. He waited until your breathing evened out. Until he was sure you were deep enough that you wouldn't wake up when he moved.
Then he carefully removed himself from the bed. You stirred once. Made a small sound. Pope paused.
When you settled again, he pulled the blanket up over your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I'll be back.” You didn't hear him. He grabbed his keys off the dresser and left.
Your father lived in a house he couldn't afford. Pope had learned that during his research. Learned a lot of things, actually. Learned your father had a gambling problem he'd never mentioned. Learned he'd been borrowing money from you for years under different pretenses. Learned he had a wife twenty years younger than him who didn't know he had a daughter with another woman. Learned he spent money on bottles of wine that cost more than rent.
The house was dark when Pope pulled up. One light on in the back. Probably the kitchen. Pope sat in his truck for a moment. Engine off. Hands resting on the steering wheel. He wasn't thinking about consequences. Wasn't thinking about right or wrong. Wasn't thinking about anything except the look on your face when you'd said he told me they were going to kill him.
He got out of the truck. The neighborhood was quiet. Nobody around. Pope had chosen the time carefully. Late enough that people were asleep. Early enough that the bars weren't closed yet. Your father would be home. Probably drinking. Probably watching TV. Probably not thinking about you at all.
The back door was unlocked. Careless. Pope let himself in. The kitchen was empty but the light was on. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter next to a glass. Pope moved through the house silently. Years of practice made it easy. He found your father in the living room. Sitting in a recliner. TV on. Eyes half-closed.
He didn't hear Pope coming. Didn't see him until Pope was already there. By then it was too late. Pope's hand closed around the back of your father's neck and yanked him out of the chair. The movement was so sudden, so violent, that your father didn't have time to process it. His body hit the floor hard. The air punched out of his lungs. Before he could draw another breath, Pope's boot connected with his ribs.
The crack was audible. Your father made a sound. High. Desperate. Pope kicked him again. Same spot. Harder this time.
Your father tried to curl into himself. Tried to protect his body. Pope grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him across the floor. Your father's hands scrabbled at Pope's wrist. His legs kicked uselessly. Pope hauled him up and slammed his face into the coffee table.
Once. Twice. Three times. The wood splintered on the third impact. Blood sprayed across the surface. Your father's nose was broken. Maybe his cheekbone too. Pope let him drop and stepped back. Your father rolled onto his side. Gasping. Choking on blood. His hands came up to his face instinctively.
“Who-“ The word came out wet. Garbled.
Pope crouched down beside him. His expression was blank. Empty. Like he was looking at something that didn't matter. “I'm the man taking care of your daughter.” Your father's eyes went wide. Fear. Pope's hand shot out and grabbed his throat. “And you just couldn't leave her alone.” He squeezed. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make breathing impossible.
Your father's hands clawed at Pope's wrist. His legs kicked out. His body thrashed. Pope's grip didn't budge. He watched your father's face turn red. Watched the panic set in. Watched him realize nobody was coming.
Then Pope let go. Your father sucked in a desperate breath. Coughed. Choked. Blood and spit ran down his chin. “Please-“
Pope stood up. He looked around the room. His eyes landed on the fireplace. On the iron poker sitting in the stand beside it. He walked over and picked it up. Tested the weight.
Your father saw it. Started trying to crawl away. Pope crossed the distance in two steps and brought the poker down on your father's leg. The sound of the bone breaking was sharp. Clean. Your father screamed. The sound was raw. Animal. Pope hit him again. Same leg. The scream turned into something else. Something that didn't sound human anymore.
Pope dropped the poker. He grabbed your father by the collar and dragged him back to the center of the room. Your father was sobbing now. Begging. The words came out in a jumbled mess. Apologies. Promises. Pleas for mercy.
Pope didn't respond. He straddled your father's chest and pinned his arms with his knees. Your father tried to buck him off. Tried to twist away. Pope's fist came down on his face. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. The cartilage in his nose collapsed completely. His orbital bone cracked. Blood poured from his mouth.
Pope kept hitting him. Methodical. Relentless. Each impact made a wet, meaty sound. Your father's struggles got weaker.
His face was unrecognizable now. Swollen. Pulped. One eye was completely shut. The other stared up at nothing. His breathing was shallow. Rattling. Pope's knuckles were split open. Blood, his and your father's, covered his hands.
He stopped. Looked down at the broken thing beneath him. Your father's mouth moved. Trying to form words. Pope leaned down. Close enough to hear. “Are you trying to ask me why i’m doing this?”
“You told her she killed her mother.” His voice was quiet. Flat. “You made her think she owed you.”
Your father made a sound. Wet. Gurgling. Pope's hands closed around his throat. “Now I have to kill you.” He squeezed. This time he didn't let go.
Your father's body convulsed. His legs kicked weakly. His hands came up and tried to pry Pope's fingers loose but there was no strength left in them. Pope watched his face change colors. Watched the light start to fade from his remaining eye. Watched the exact moment the fight left him.
He kept squeezing. Long after your father stopped moving. Long after his body went limp. Long after there was any possibility of him coming back. When Pope finally let go, his hands were shaking. Not from fear. Not from regret. From exertion.
He stood up slowly. Looked down at the body. At the blood pooled on the floor. At the broken furniture. At the evidence of what he'd done. Then he turned and walked out.
You woke up to the sound of water running. For a second, you were disoriented. The bed was empty beside you. The apartment was dark except for a sliver of light coming from under the bathroom door. You sat up slowly. Listened. The shower. Pope was in the shower.
Something about that felt wrong. Not the shower itself, Pope showered at weird hours sometimes, especially when he couldn't sleep. But something about the timing. About the way you'd woken up. Like your body had sensed his absence before your mind caught up.
You pushed the blankets back and stood. Your bare feet were silent on the hardwood as you crossed to the bathroom. The door was cracked open. Steam poured out into the hallway. You pushed it open wider and stepped inside.
The mirror was fogged. The air was thick and hot. Through the glass shower door, you could see Pope. His back to you. Head down. Hands braced against the tile. Water cascading over his shoulders. And swirling red down the drain.
Your breath caught. Not from fear. From something else entirely. You watched the water run pink, then clear, then pink again as it sluiced over his skin. Watched the way his shoulders rose and fell with each breath. Watched the tension in his spine. The set of his jaw when he turned his head slightly.
He knew you were there. You could tell by the way his body shifted. The way his hands flexed against the tile. But he didn't turn around. Didn't say anything.
Just stood there under the spray like he was waiting for you to decide what happened next. You reached for the hem of your sleep shirt. Pulled it over your head. Let it fall to the floor. Your shorts followed. Then your underwear. You opened the shower door and stepped inside.
The water hit you immediately. Hot. Almost too hot. Pope turned his head. His eyes met yours. There was something in his expression you'd never seen before. Uncertainty. Like he was bracing for your reaction and didn't know what it would be. Like he thought you might be scared. Might pull away. Might finally see him for what he really was and decide it was too much.
You stepped closer. Close enough that your chest brushed his back. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Your hands came up slowly. Settled on his waist. Slid around to his stomach. You pressed yourself against him. Felt every line of his body against yours.
“Sweetheart-“ His voice was rough. Uncertain.
You cut him off. “Turn around.”
For a moment, he didn't move. Then he did. Slowly. Like he was giving you time to change your mind. When he faced you, you could see it all. The blood still caught under his fingernails. The split skin across his knuckles. The spatter on his chest that the water hadn't quite washed away yet. Evidence. Proof. Of what he'd done. Of what he was capable of. Of how far he was willing to go.
Your eyes traced over every mark. Every bruise. Every sign of violence. And something inside you shifted. Something you'd been trying to ignore for weeks. Maybe longer. The part of you that had always been drawn to the darkness in him. The part that felt safest when he was most dangerous. The part that didn't want him in spite of what he was capable of, but because of it.
You looked up. Met his eyes. “You killed him.” It wasn't a question.
Pope's jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
The word hung between you. Heavy. Final. Irreversible. You should have been horrified. Should have been scared. Should have stepped back and demanded answers and processed the weight of what he'd just told you. Instead, you closed the distance between you. Your hands came up to his chest. Slid over the water-slick skin. Traced the lines of muscle. The evidence of violence. “Good.” The word came out breathier than you intended.
Pope's eyes widened slightly. “Sweetheart-“
You pressed closer. Your body flush against his. “He deserved it.”
Pope's hands came up instinctively. Settled on your hips. But he didn't pull you closer. Didn't move. Just stood there staring at you like he was trying to figure out if you were in shock. If this was some kind of delayed reaction. If you'd break down any second and realize what you were saying.
You didn't. Instead, you slid your hands up his chest. Over his shoulders. Into his wet hair. “You did that for me.” Your voice was soft. Almost reverent.
Pope's grip on your hips tightened. “I did it because he hurt you.”
“I know.” You pulled his head down. Brought his face close to yours. “That's why it's hot.”
For a second, Pope just stared at you. Like he couldn't quite process what you'd just said. Like he'd expected tears or fear or horror, anything except this. Except you pressed against him. Wet and wanting. Looking at him like he'd just done the most romantic thing in the world instead of beating a man to death with his bare hands.
“You're not scared.” It wasn't a question. More like he was testing the words. Trying to make sense of them.
You shook your head. “No.”
“You should be.”
Your lips curved. Just slightly. “I'm not.”
Pope's eyes darkened. You watched it happen. Watched the uncertainty bleed away. Watched something else take its place. Something hungry. Possessive. Dangerous. “Bambi-“
You kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Your mouth crashed against his and Pope made a sound low in his throat. His hands tightened on your hips. Pulled you flush against him. You could feel every inch of him. Hard muscle. Wet skin. The evidence of what he'd done still lingering on his body.
It should have repulsed you. It didn't. It made you want him more. Your hands fisted in his hair. Pulled. Pope groaned into your mouth.
His hands slid from your hips to your ass. Gripped. Lifted. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He pressed you back against the tile. The cold shocked through you for half a second before the heat of his body overwhelmed it. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw. Down your throat. Teeth scraping over your pulse point.
You gasped. Arched into him. “Andy-“ His name came out broken. Needy.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Water ran down his face. His eyes were wild. Searching. “You really want this?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“Even knowing-“
“Especially knowing.” The words came out fierce. Certain. Pope stared at you for another beat. Then something in him snapped. His mouth found yours again Harder this time. More demanding.
His hands roamed over your body like he was trying to memorize every curve. Every line. Every place that made you gasp or arch or dig your nails into his shoulders. You kissed him back just as desperately.
Your hands slid over his chest. His shoulders. Down his arms. You could feel the split skin on his knuckles. The evidence of violence. Of protection. Of love twisted into something darker and more dangerous than most people would ever understand. But you understood. You'd always understood. That's what scared you before. Not Pope. Not what he was capable of. But the part of yourself that wanted it. That craved it. That felt safest when he was most dangerous. You'd spent so long trying to be good. Trying to be soft. Trying to be the kind of person who didn't find violence attractive.
But standing here with Pope's hands on your body and his mouth on your throat and the evidence of what he'd done still washing down the drain- You didn't want to be that person anymore. You wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted the darkness he carried and the protection he offered and the certainty that he would burn the world down before he let anyone hurt you again.
Pope's mouth moved back to yours. His kiss was consuming. Possessive. Like he was claiming you. Marking you. Making sure you understood exactly what you were choosing.
You kissed him back just as fiercely. Your nails dragged down his back. Hard enough to leave marks. Pope groaned. His hips pressed forward. You could feel him. Hard.
“Bambi-“ Your name was a warning. A question. A plea. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“I want you.”
Pope's jaw clenched. “You don't know what you're saying.”
“Yes, I do.” Your hands came up to frame his face. “You killed him because he hurt me.”
Pope's eyes searched yours. “Yeah.”
“And I love you for it.” The words hung between you. Raw. Honest. Dangerous.
Pope's expression shifted. Something fierce and possessive and almost feral crossed his face. “Say it again.” His voice was rough. Commanding.
You held his gaze. “I love you for it.”
Pope kissed you again. Harder. Deeper. His hands gripped your thighs. Held you against the wall. The water beat down on both of you. Hot. Relentless. Washing away the evidence of what he'd done while you clung to him and kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Pope's forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed. “You're not who I thought you were.” The words were quiet. Almost awed.
You smiled. “Neither are you.”
Pope's eyes opened. Met yours. “I'm exactly who you thought I was.”
You shook your head. “No.” Your hands slid into his hair. “You're even better.”
Pope stared at you. Like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he'd thought he knew you and was just now realizing how wrong he'd been.
You leaned in. Pressed your lips to his. Soft. Gentle. A contrast to everything that had come before. Pope's hands tightened on your thighs. You smiled against his mouth.
Pope pulled back enough to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes traced over your face. Searching for doubt. For any sign that you didn't mean what you were saying. He didn't find any. Instead, he found something that made his breath catch. Certainty. Desire. Darkness. A mirror of his own. “Fuck.” The word came out rough. Almost reverent.
You grinned. “Yeah… fuck.”
Pope kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was savoring it. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. The feel of you. The way you fit against him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark. Hungry. Possessive. “You're mine.” It wasn't a question.
You nodded anyway. “Mhm.”
“Say it.” His voice was commanding.
You held his gaze. “I'm yours.”
Pope's grip on you tightened. “And I'm yours.” The words settled between you. A promise. A claim. A vow.
You kissed him again. Soft. Sweet. A contrast to the violence that had brought you here. Pope turned off the water. Carried you out of the shower. Didn't bother with towels. Just walked you straight to the bedroom and laid you down on the bed. Water dripped from both of you. Soaked into the sheets. Neither of you cared.
Pope settled over you. His weight familiar. Comforting. You looked up at him. At the man who'd killed for you. Who'd crossed a line most people couldn't even see. Who'd looked at the person who'd spent years destroying you and decided he didn't get to exist anymore. And you felt safer than you'd ever felt in your life. Not in spite of what he'd done. Because of it.
Pope's hand came up to cup your face. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. You smiled. Your hand covered his. Something in Pope's expression softened. You pulled him down. And as Pope's hands roamed over your body and his mouth found all the places that made you gasp, you realized you weren't scared anymore. Not of him. Not of yourself. Not of the darkness you'd been running from your whole life. Because Pope had shown you something tonight. That love didn't have to be soft. That protection didn't have to be gentle. That sometimes the most dangerous thing in the world was also the safest.
But when you tried to deepen the kiss, Pope pulled back. His eyes were dark. Hungry. Possessive in a way that made heat pool low in your belly. You reached for him but he caught your wrists, pinned them above your head with one hand. The other traced down your body, slow, deliberate, like he was mapping every curve, every line, every place that belonged to him now. His touch was firm, claiming, and you arched into it, wanting more, needing more.
“Andy-“
His mouth cut off whatever you were going to say. Kissed you hard enough to bruise, hard enough to claim, his teeth catching your bottom lip before his tongue swept into your mouth. When he pulled back, you were breathless, your lips swollen, your body trembling beneath him.
“Let me.”
Your voice came out soft. Pleading. You pulled against his grip on your wrists and he let you go, watched as you sat up, as you pushed him back against the headboard, as you settled between his legs. Your hands slid up his thighs, felt the muscle tense under your touch, felt the power coiled there, the same power that had ended your father's life just hours ago.
“Let me show you.”
Pope's jaw clenched. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you kissed it, then took it into your mouth, sucked. Pope's breath hitched. His eyes never left yours, dark and intense, watching every movement you made.
You released his thumb and moved your hands higher, wrapped one around him. He was already hard, had been since the shower, since you'd pressed against him and told him you loved him for what he'd done. Your hand stroked him once, slow, firm, and Pope's head fell back against the headboard. His breathing changed, deeper, rougher, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the way his fingers flexed against the sheets.
You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his hip, then lower, your tongue tracing along his length from base to tip. Pope's hand fisted in your wet hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself. You took him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of him, the way his whole body tensed at the contact.
Pope made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and your eyes flicked up to his face. His jaw was clenched, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each breath. You took him deeper, hollowed your cheeks, used your tongue the way you knew he liked, and Pope's grip in your hair tightened. His hips shifted just slightly, like he was fighting the urge to thrust, fighting to maintain control.
You pulled back, let him slip from your mouth, and looked up at him with eyes that were already starting to water. “I want you to,” you said, your voice rough, wrecked. “Use me.”
The words hung between you, raw, honest, desperate. Pope's eyes opened and met yours, searching your face for any sign of hesitation, any doubt. He found none. “You sure?”
You nodded, your hand still wrapped around him, stroking slowly. “Please.”
Pope's expression darkened. His hand tightened in your hair and his other hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. “Open,” he said, his voice low and commanding, and you did. You opened your mouth and Pope guided himself back in, slow at first, letting you adjust, letting you breathe. Then his grip tightened and he started to move.
Controlled at first. Deliberate. Using your mouth the way you'd asked him to, the way you needed him to. You relaxed your throat, let him in deeper, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes but you didn't pull away. Didn't want to. This was worship. Gratitude. Surrender. This was you showing him exactly what his protection meant to you.
Pope's breathing got rougher, less controlled. His movements became more demanding, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. You gagged, choked, tears streaming down your face, but you kept your eyes on his, kept your hands gripping his thighs, nails digging into muscle. The sounds were obscene, wet, desperate, the sound of you struggling to take him, the sound of him using you exactly the way you'd begged him to.
Your jaw ached. Your throat burned. Saliva dripped down your chin and tears blurred your vision, but you didn't care. You could feel him getting close, feel the tension building in his body, the way his thrusts became less rhythmic, more desperate. His hand in your hair was almost painful now, holding you in place, controlling every movement, and you loved it. Loved the way he took what he needed from you. Loved the way he didn't hold back.
Pope's breathing was ragged now, his control slipping, and just when you thought he was going to come down your throat, he pulled you off him suddenly. You gasped, coughed, looked up at him with confusion and need, your lips swollen and wet, your face a mess of tears and saliva.
He was breathing hard, his eyes wild, possessive, darker than you'd ever seen them. “Not like this,” he said, his voice strained, rough. “ I want to feel you.”
Pope pulled you up, positioned you over him, your legs on either side of his hips. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise and you could feel him beneath you, hard and slick from your mouth. You reached between you, guided him to your entrance. You were already wet, had been since the shower, since you'd seen the blood, since you'd realized what he'd done for you.
You sank down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and you gasped as he filled you completely. Pope's hands tightened on your waist, his eyes never leaving yours, watching every expression that crossed your face, the pleasure, the pain, the overwhelming sensation of being completely full of him.
When you were fully seated, you both paused, breathing, adjusting, savoring the connection. Then you started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm. Pope's hands guided you, controlled the pace, controlled everything, and you let him. Surrendered completely to whatever he wanted to do to you.
“Thank you,” you breathed, the words spilling out unbidden. “Thank you for protecting me.” Pope's grip tightened and he thrust up into you, hard, making you gasp. “Thank you for killing him.” Another thrust, harder this time, and you moaned. “Thank you for being exactly what I need.”
Pope pulled you down, kissed you hard, his tongue invading your mouth the same way his cock was invading your body. His hands moved from your waist to your hips, held you in place while he thrust up into you, harder, deeper, taking control completely. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your forehead pressed against his as he fucked you with an intensity that stole your breath.
“I want you to come inside me,” you gasped against his mouth, the words desperate, needy. “Please, Andy. I want to feel you. Want to carry you inside me. Want everything you'll give me.”
Pope groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he flipped you, pinned you beneath him on the bed. His hands grabbed your thighs, pushed them back, opened you wider, and then he was moving again, hard, deep, relentless. The new angle had him hitting something inside you that made you see stars, made you cry out with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulled him deeper, your hands clawing at his back. “Yes,” you moaned, the word broken, desperate. “Please, Honey. Want you to fill me up with your cum.”
The words were filthy, desperate, true. Pope's rhythm got rougher, less controlled, more primal. You could feel him getting close, feel the tension building in his body, the way his breathing changed, the way his grip on you tightened. His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping, marking, claiming you as his.
“Come inside me,” you begged, your nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. “Fill me up. Give me everything. Want to feel you dripping out of me. Want to carry your cum inside me all day.”
Pope's hand came up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, possessing, reminding you who you belonged to. His thrusts got harder, deeper, more desperate, and you felt yourself getting close, the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your whole body.
“I'm yours,” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper. “Completely yours. Mark me. Claim me.”
Pope's forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged, uncontrolled, and you could feel him right on the edge. His grip on your throat tightened just slightly and his rhythm faltered, became erratic, and then he was coming, hard, deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his cum.
You felt it, felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread inside you, and it pushed you over the edge. Your body clenched around him, milking him, taking everything he had to give, your orgasm crashing through you in waves that left you shaking and gasping beneath him.
Pope's hand stayed on your throat, his body pressed you into the mattress, his weight grounding you, anchoring you. When you both finally came down, Pope didn't pull out, didn't move. Just stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing slowly evening out.
Your hands came up to his face, traced over his features, the sharp line of his jaw, the scar above his eyebrow, the lips that had just claimed every part of you. “I love you,” you whispered, the words soft, certain, absolute.
Pope's eyes opened and met yours. “I love you too,” he said, his voice rough, raw, honest.
You pulled him down and kissed him, soft, sweet, a promise. Pope rolled onto his side, pulled you with him, kept himself buried inside you. Your leg hooked over his hip, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close, keeping you connected. You pressed your face against his chest, felt his heartbeat, steady, strong, safe.
“Thank you,” you whispered again, the words barely audible.
Pope's hand came up to your hair, stroked gently. “Always.”
And you realized, lying there with him still inside you, his cum slowly leaking out around where you were joined, that you were done pretending otherwise. Done pretending you wanted soft. Done pretending you needed gentle. Done pretending the darkness scared you.
Because Pope had shown you the truth tonight, that sometimes the most dangerous thing in the world was also the safest. And you were never letting that go.
summary: Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: not much, abusive relationship, unsafe motorcycle ride (wear a helmet) trauma dump between them, not canon timeline, embarrassing stories lol, deran protects reader, angsty. word count: 7.4k amalia’s love note: i got a request for more of deran and bambis friendship so here it is my loves. pls no hate if you don’t like it. love yall this ISNT proofread sorry guys. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
July 13th, 2013
The beach was packed that afternoon.
The kind of packed that only happened during the middle of summer when tourists flooded Oceanside and acted like they owned every inch of sand. Children shrieked as they chased each other through the surf, music blasted from portable speakers buried somewhere beneath towels and coolers, and the smell of sunscreen, saltwater, and grilled food drifted through the warm air. The sun hung high overhead, bright enough that the ocean looked like thousands of diamonds scattered across the surface.
You sat on a towel beside Nate, your knees drawn loosely to your chest as you watched surfers farther out beyond the break. You’d always loved the ocean. Loved how loud it was. Loved how it made everything else feel smaller for a little while. Normally beach days were your favorite.
Today felt different. Not bad. Just off.
Nate had barely looked up from his phone in almost twenty minutes.
You were halfway through telling him some story about a customer from work when a shadow fell across your towel.
“Hey.”
You looked up to find a guy standing there, probably a few years older than you. He looked nervous enough that you immediately knew what was happening before he even opened his mouth.
“Oh, hi.”
The guy shifted awkwardly on his feet.
“This is kinda random, but I saw you over here and thought you were really pretty.”
Your stomach sank immediately. Not because he was being rude. Because you already knew Nate was going to hate this. You offered the stranger a polite smile anyway.
“Thank you, that’s really sweet.” His smile widened slightly. “But I have a boyfriend.” Immediately you pointed toward Nate beside you. “He’s right there.”
The guy glanced over. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“My bad.”
“No worries.”
The stranger held up his hands. “Well, he’s lucky.”
Heat crept into your cheeks. You laughed softly. “Thank you.”
A second later he walked away. The entire interaction lasted maybe thirty seconds. Thirty completely harmless seconds. You barely thought about it.
Nate clearly did. The silence beside you felt wrong almost immediately. Heavy. The kind of silence that made your shoulders tense before you even understood why.
Slowly, you looked over. Nate was staring at the ocean. Jaw clenched. Phone forgotten in his hand.
“Nate.”
“What?” You sighed. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
His head turned. Dark eyes landing on you immediately. “Not a big deal?”
“No?”
“He came over here to hit on you.”
“And I shut him down.”
“You smiled at him.”
You stared. “What?”
“You smiled.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you. “Because I’m not an asshole.”
“You liked the attention.”
The accusation hit harder than it should have. Your expression immediately fell “Nate.”
“What?”
“I literally told him I had a boyfriend.”
“After talking to him.”
“He said hello.”
“You didn’t have to entertain it.”
You stared at him. For a moment you genuinely couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. Again. It always seemed to be something. A waiter smiled at you. A cashier complimented your earrings. A stranger held a door open. And somehow every single interaction became your fault.
“Nate, stop.”
“No.”
Your stomach twisted. People were starting to glance over. You hated that. You hated causing a scene. You hated the attention. You hated the way arguments always seemed to find you anyway. You pushed yourself to your feet. “I’m gonna walk for a minute.”
“No you’re not.”
You blinked. “What?”
You barely got the word out before Nate stood too. Then his hand wrapped around your upper arm. Pain shot through you immediately. Your breath caught. “Nate-”
“Don’t walk away from me.” The pressure increased.
You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him. “Nate, you’re hurting me.”
“I don’t care.” The words were harder than the grip. Around you, conversations had started slowing. People were looking now. Humiliation burned hot across your face.
“Nate, let go.”
“No.”
Far out in the water, Deran saw the entire thing. He’d been sitting on his board beyond the break, waiting for the next decent set to roll in. The waves had been shit all afternoon, leaving him mostly floating in place and watching the beach.
Normally he ignored people. Preferred it, actually. But it was hard to ignore a guy grabbing a girl hard enough that even from the ocean Deran could see her trying to pull away. His jaw clenched immediately.
The thing about Deran was that he knew exactly what that grip meant. He’d seen it before. Too many times. Seen it from drunk assholes outside bars. Seen it from fathers. Seen it from boyfriends. Seen it from men who always swore they didn’t mean it afterward.
Before he fully realized what he was doing, he was already paddling toward shore.
By the time his feet hit sand he was angry. By the time he reached you he was furious. Nate never even saw him coming. The punch landed so hard it snapped Nate’s head sideways. The crack echoed across the beach.
Several people gasped. Nate stumbled backward into the sand. “What the fuck?!”
You whipped around so fast you almost lost your balance. A tall guy stood between you and Nate. Ocean water dripped from his long blonde hair. His chest rose steadily as if he hadn’t just sprinted across half the beach to get here.
Nate scrambled to his feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Deran pointed directly at him. “Don’t fucking touch her.” The words came out calm. Almost bored. Which somehow made them far more intimidating.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
Deran barked out a humorless laugh “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Then act like it.”
The tension was instant. The kind that made everyone nearby stop pretending not to watch.
Deran’s eyes flicked toward your arm. You were still rubbing it. A faint red mark already forming where Nate grabbed you. Something dark crossed Deran’s face. “I know enough man.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Deran looked at you. “You okay?”
The concern surprised you. You nodded automatically. “Yeah.”
He looked like he didn’t believe that for a second. But after a moment he nodded once. Then turned around. And walked right back toward the ocean.
The second he was gone Nate exploded “What the fuck was that?”
You stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“He punched me.”
“You grabbed me.”
“I barely touched you.”
You looked down at your arm. The mark already said otherwise. “Nate-”
“No.” He grabbed his keys. His cooler. His backpack. Everything.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Nate.”
He didn’t even look at you. The truck started. The engine roared. And then he drove away. Actually drove away. Leaving you standing alone on the beach. You stared after the truck until it disappeared. Then laughed. One short, disbelieving laugh.
“Wow.”
Hours later the beach had started emptying. The sky had turned shades of orange and pink, painting the ocean gold beneath the setting sun. Most people had already gone home. The remaining surfers were beginning to load up their trucks.
You spotted him immediately. The guy. He sat on the tailgate of an old dodge charger near the parking lot, absently waxing a surfboard while staring out at the water.
You hesitated. Then started walking toward him. Your heart pounded harder with every step.
You weren’t usually shy. But something about him made you nervous. Maybe because he’d punched your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.
Whatever.
Deran glanced up when your shadow crossed over him. Recognition flashed across his face instantly. “Oh.”
You shifted awkwardly. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
The silence lasted just long enough to become uncomfortable.
Then you blurted: “Thank you.”
Deran frowned. “For what?”
You blinked. “For punching my boyfriend.”
His entire face twisted. “That’s a sentence you shouldn’t ever have to say.”
A laugh escaped you.
His expression softened immediately. “Did he seriously leave you here?”
You looked away. “…Maybe.”
Deran stared. Then looked toward the parking lot. Then back at you. “You’re kidding.”
You shook your head. “Nope.”
“Jesus Christ, what a dick.” For the first time all day, somebody sounded more annoyed about it than you were. You smiled despite yourself. Deran noticed. His eyes lingered on it briefly before he looked away. “You got a ride home?”
“Not really.”
“I can take you.”
Another awkward silence. Your eyes drifted toward the board in his hands. “You surf?”
Deran looked at you. Then looked at the board. Then back at you. “No.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I carry it around for decoration.” A startled laugh burst from your mouth. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You know how?”
“To surf?”
“Yeah.”
You nodded. “A little.”
Deran pointed at you immediately. “A little means no.”
“It means yes.”
“No. It means you probably stood on one once.”
“It means yes.”
He rolled his eyes. Then climbed off the tailgate. “Come here.”
You followed him around the truck. Deran dug through the bed before pulling out another board. Your eyes widened. “You have an extra?”
“I’ve got like six extras.This is my brother’s.” He held out his own board to you. You hesitated. “Take mine, Craig’s huge you won’t be able to catch anything on his.”
“Really?”
Deran shrugged. “If you break it, I’ll be pissed.”
You laughed. “I won’t break it.”
“We’ll see.”
Slowly, you took the board. And for the first time all day, the knot that had been sitting in your chest began to loosen.
The surf session should’ve ended after an hour. Maybe two. Instead, somehow, the entire afternoon disappeared.
One minute you were awkwardly paddling back out beside him, trying not to embarrass yourself on his board, and the next the sun was already sinking lower across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
Deran turned out to be annoyingly good at teaching. His teaching methods consisted of mild bullying that made you smile.
“You look like you’re fighting the ocean.”
“I am fighting the ocean.”
“Well the ocean is winning.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re slow.”
You splashed water at him. He laughed. By the time you both finally came in, your arms felt like jelly and your cheeks hurt from smiling.
The beach had mostly emptied by then.
Only a handful of surfers remained scattered along the shoreline packing up boards and loading trucks.
You dropped onto the sand with a groan. “I’m never moving again.”
Deran tossed his board down beside yours “You caught three waves.”
“Three amazing waves.”
“You fell off all three.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It literally is the point. But okay.”
You threw a handful of sand at him. He dodged it effortlessly.
For a while neither of you said much.
The ocean crashed softly against the shore while the sky darkened overhead. The air had started cooling down enough that goosebumps prickled across your skin. Then you noticed Deran gathering driftwood. A lot of driftwood.
Your eyebrows rose. “What are you doing?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Making a fire.”
You sat up immediately. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Yep.”
You blinked. “That’s your whole answer?”
Deran shrugged. “Nobody’s gonna bother us.”
“That’s incredibly reassuring.”
“It should be.”
“You sound like somebody who’s been arrested before.”
His grin widened. “Maybe.”
“Oh my God.”
A few minutes later flames crackled softly in front of you both.
You sat cross-legged in the sand, hands stretched toward the warmth while the sky transitioned fully into night. Stars had started appearing overhead one by one, and the ocean had become nothing but a dark endless expanse stretching beyond the firelight.
It was peaceful. More peaceful than your day had any right being.
Especially considering you’d technically gotten dumped. Or abandoned. Or whatever leaving your girlfriend stranded at the beach counted as.
Deran sat beside you, one arm draped casually over his bent knee while he stared into the fire. “You okay?”
The question surprised you. Not because it was invasive. Because it sounded genuine. You looked down.
“Yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
A laugh escaped you. “You don’t know me.”
“I know your boyfriend left you at the beach.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
Deran nodded. “Good.”
You smiled despite yourself.
The fire crackled between you. For a moment you just watched it. Then you sighed. “I’m starting med school in a few months.”
Deran looked over immediately. “Seriously?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s badass.”
Your laugh came out quieter this time “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
You shrugged. Suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. “I don’t know.”
Deran frowned. “What?”
You picked at a loose thread on your shorts “Nate always said I couldn’t do it.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Immediately you regretted saying them. The silence that followed felt enormous.
“What?” You glanced up. Deran looked genuinely confused. Like the statement made absolutely no sense to him.
“He just…” you started awkwardly. “He always said med school was too hard. That I wasn’t smart enough. That I’d probably quit halfway through anyways so why waste the money.”
Deran stared at you. For several seconds. Then he barked out a laugh so loud it startled you. “What?”
“And you believe that asshole?”
You frowned. “Kind of.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Thanks.”
“No seriously.” He pointed at you. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re being very supportive right now.”
“No, I’m serious.” Deran leaned forward. “You got into med school.”
“Yeah.”
“Actual fucking med school.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re already smarter than most people. Definitely smarter than me.” You looked away. Embarrassed. But Deran wasn’t done. “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“The entire time we’ve been hanging out you’ve corrected me three times.”
“I have not.”
“You corrected me on how I put on sunscreen.”
“Because one spray into the air and walking into it is wrong.”
“You corrected me on rip currents.”
“You were wrong.”
“You corrected me on hydration.”
“You were literally dehydrated.”
“My point exactly.”
You laughed.
Deran shook his head.
“You’re gonna be the best fucking doctor ever.”
The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation. Like it was simply a fact. Not something he was saying to make you feel better.
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly. Nobody had ever said it like that before. Not your father. Not Nate.
You swallowed.
“Thanks.”
Deran shrugged. Like it was obvious. Because to him, apparently, it was.
The conversation drifted after that. Small things. Favorite movies. Terrible jobs. The weirdest customers you’d ever dealt with.
At some point you noticed Deran stop paying attention. Not completely. Just enough that his eyes kept drifting somewhere over your shoulder.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You followed his gaze. A guy. Tall. Dark hair. Probably a surfer. Standing farther down the beach with a group of friends.
Interesting.
You looked back at Deran. Then back at the guy. Then back at Deran. The realization hit instantly.
“Oh.”
Deran froze. “What?”
“You should go get his number.” The silence that followed was incredible.
Deran stared at you.
You stared back.
His eyes widened slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, it is him.”
“Shut up.”
“It is.”
“Keep your voice down.”
Your grin grew.
Deran rubbed both hands over his face “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He looked horrified. “It’s that obvious?”
You nodded immediately.
“Oh my God.”
“You are staring at him like a piece of meat.”
Deran choked on his own laugh. For a second neither of you could stop laughing. Eventually he pointed at you. “Don’t tell anybody.”
The amusement softened from your face. Immediately. Because suddenly you understood. Really understood. This wasn’t something everybody knew. Maybe nobody knew. The vulnerability in his expression lasted less than a second before disappearing. But you caught it. And it made your chest hurt.
You smiled gently. “I won’t.”
Deran studied you carefully. Making sure. You understood that too. So you leaned back against your hands.
“Fine.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you something embarrassing too.”
His eyebrows rose. “Oh this should be good.”
You groaned immediately. “I already regret offering.”
“Too late.”
You stared into the fire. Trying to decide if you actually wanted to say it.
“When I was fourteen I practiced kissing my pillow.”
Deran blinked. Then completely lost it. The laugh that came out of him was so loud a couple people farther down the beach turned to look.
You immediately buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
“You kissed a pillow?”
“Stop.”
“A pillow?”
“I was trying to prepare.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know!”
Deran nearly fell over laughing. You threw a piece of driftwood at him. He barely dodged it.
“You promised not to judge me.”
“I absolutely did not promise that.”
Eventually both of you settled back down. The laughter faded. The fire crackled. The waves rolled endlessly onto shore.
And somewhere between talking and laughing and sharing secrets neither of you had planned on telling anyone, something changed.
Enough that when the fire burned lower and the beach emptied around you, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
Like somehow, after only one day, you’d both found something you didn’t realize you were missing.
A friend.
august 8th, 2014
The motorcycle looked significantly less fun once you were actually standing next to it.
Five minutes ago, when Deran had casually tossed you a jacket and told you to get on, it had seemed exciting. Spontaneous. One of those reckless little adventures that always somehow became your favorite memories later. Now that you were standing beside the thing, staring at all the exposed metal and the complete lack of protection between your body and the asphalt, you were beginning to question every life choice that had led you here. The bike looked bigger up close. Louder too. More dangerous. Deran, meanwhile, looked entirely too comfortable as he adjusted his hands and kicked the stand up like he did this every day.
“Where’s my helmet?” you asked suspiciously, looking around the parking lot.
Deran glanced up. Then he looked around dramatically. Then he looked back at you “What helmet?”
Your jaw dropped. “Deran.”
“What?”
“You don’t have a helmet?”
“I have a helmet.” He pointed at his own head. For a full five seconds you just stared at him.
The ocean breeze whipped your hair across your face as a grin slowly spread across his features. The worst part was that he looked genuinely pleased with himself. Like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all week.
“You are such an asshole.”
Deran barked out a laugh loud enough that a couple walking down the sidewalk glanced over. “You’ll be fine.”
“People literally die like this.”
“People die crossing the street.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
You crossed your arms over your chest and narrowed your eyes at him. “You know, normal people usually care if their friends get brain damage.”
“Normal people are boring.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yet here you are.”
You hated that he had a point. With a dramatic groan, you finally climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, immediately grabbing the sides of the seat like your life depended on it. Deran looked over his shoulder, took one look at your death grip, and immediately started laughing again. The bike hadn’t even moved yet and somehow you were already embarrassing yourself.
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing.”
“For what?”
“Death.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m serious.”
“You look like you’re being transported to your execution.”
“Because I basically am.”
Deran reached back, grabbed one of your wrists, and physically pulled your arms around his waist. The sudden contact made your stomach flip unexpectedly, though you refused to acknowledge that part.
“There,” he said. “That’s how you’re supposed to sit.”
“This feels unsafe.”
“Everything with me is unsafe.”
“Again. Not helping.”
The motorcycle rumbled to life beneath you, the vibration traveling through your entire body. Your stomach immediately dropped. Every instinct in your body screamed that this was a terrible idea. Then Deran pulled out onto the road and suddenly there wasn’t enough time to think about any of it.
The first ten minutes were awful.
Every turn felt too sharp. Every acceleration felt too fast. Every bump in the road convinced you that this was how your obituary would read. You had your arms locked so tightly around Deran’s middle that he finally reached down and smacked your hand.
“You trying to crack a rib?”
“I’m trying not to die.”
“You’re not gonna die.”
“That’s exactly what people say right before somebody dies.”
Deran laughed so hard the bike wobbled slightly.
Your horrified scream only made him laugh harder. “Deran!”
“Relax!”
“I hate you!”
“No you don’t.”
The thing was, eventually, despite your best efforts, you actually started having fun.
The coastline opened up around you as the city slowly disappeared behind them. The road curved along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific, the ocean stretching endlessly beside you in a way that almost didn’t seem real. Sunlight glittered across the water like scattered glass. Surfers floated beyond the break waiting for waves. Sailboats drifted lazily in the distance. The farther north they drove, the less you thought about falling off the motorcycle and the more you found yourself staring at everything around you.
The wind was incredible.
Your hair whipped wildly behind you. Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes from the force of it. The salty ocean air filled your lungs with every breath. It felt like freedom in a way you couldn’t really explain. No stress. No responsibilities. No family drama. No expectations. Just endless coastline and sunshine and the sound of the engine beneath you.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, your brain finally shut up.
You weren’t thinking. You were just existing. And God, it felt good. You tipped your head back toward the sky and laughed.
A real laugh. The kind that came from somewhere deep in your chest. The kind you couldn’t fake. The kind that surprised even you.
Deran heard it immediately. You felt him smile. “There she is.”
You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “Don’t ruin it.”
“You having fun?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
The bike accelerated slightly and you immediately squealed. Deran nearly drove into the shoulder laughing. “You are such a baby.”
“I just wanted brunch!”
“No, you wanted adventure.”
“I wanted pancakes!”
“That’s because you’re secretly eighty years old.”
You spent the next ten minutes arguing about breakfast foods while flying up the California coastline on a motorcycle. Somehow that felt perfectly normal for the two of you.
By the time Deran finally pulled into a scenic overlook above the ocean, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
The second your feet touched the ground, however, your legs almost gave out beneath you. “Oh my God.” You grabbed onto the motorcycle immediately. “The ground is moving.”
Deran laughed. “The ground isn’t moving.”
“It is.”
“Nope.”
You pointed dramatically at him. “You did this to me.”
“I improved your life.”
“You endangered my life.”
“Same thing.”
You laughed despite yourself. The overlook sat high above the cliffs, offering a perfect view of the coastline stretching endlessly in both directions. Waves crashed violently against the rocks hundreds of feet below. Seagulls drifted overhead. Everything smelled like saltwater and sunshine.
For a while neither of you said anything. You just stood there together looking out at the ocean.
Eventually Deran bumped your shoulder lightly with his. “Got you to smile today.”
You looked over at him. “What?”
“You smiled.”
His voice was quieter now. “You haven’t done that much lately.”
He was right. Life had been difficult. Between school, your relationship, and everything else happening in your life, it felt like you’d spent months just surviving. Somewhere along the way you’d forgotten what it felt like to simply be happy.
And somehow Deran had noticed. Of course he had. He always noticed.
You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nudged him back. “Thanks.”
Deran shrugged immediately, pretending the entire thing was no big deal. Like dragging you onto a motorcycle because he’d noticed you were sad wasn’t one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a long time.
Then he jerked his head toward the bike “Wanna keep going?”
You looked out at the endless coastline waiting ahead of you. The sunshine. The ocean. The road disappearing into the horizon.
Then you grinned. “Only if you drive slower.”
Deran snorted. “Absolutely not.”
And somehow that answer made you laugh even harder.
May 30th, 2015
“What if we left?” Deran’s voice cut through the sound of crashing waves and distant seagulls.
You looked up from your book immediately. The beach was crowded enough that conversations blended together into white noise, but the seriousness in his tone made you glance over the top of your sunglasses.
Deran was stretched out beside you in the sand, one knee bent, forearm draped across it. His gaze was fixed on the ocean, but there was something restless behind his expression. Something that had been there more and more lately.
You folded the corner of your page and lowered the book into your lap. “Oceanside?”
“Yeah man,” Deran said, finally looking over at you. “Let’s just fucking leave.”
A grin immediately tugged at your mouth “Oh? That’s the plan?”
“It’s a good plan.”
“It sounds like a terrible plan.”
“No, it sounds like freedom.”
You laughed softly.
Deran pointed at you. “See? Right there. That’s the problem. You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Immediately find reasons not to do something.”
“Because somebody has to be the responsible one.”
“You and Nate are over for the fourth and hopefully final time,” Deran continued, ignoring you completely. “Adrian and I aren’t working out. I’ll sell the bar and we can go.”
That actually made you sit up. Your book fell forgotten beside you as you turned toward him fully. “What about school?” The question came out instantly. Of course it did. You’d worked too hard to get there. UCSD had felt impossible once. Now you were heading into your second year and still sometimes woke up convinced somebody would realize they’d made a mistake letting you in.
Deran groaned dramatically. “Can’t you transfer? You got into like a billion of those preppy schools.”
You snorted. “It wasn’t a billion.”
“It was enough.”
You could transfer. Technically. But transferring medical tracks wasn’t exactly simple. There were committees and approvals and transcripts and enough paperwork to make you want to walk into the ocean. You frowned thoughtfully. “I could, I think. Where would we go?”
Deran barked out a laugh. “I don’t know.”
“Fantastic plan.”
“Right?”
You rolled your eyes.
Deran pointed toward the water. “Where was that movie we watched the other night shot?”
Your eyes widened. “Twilight?” You immediately started laughing. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“You would not survive in the cold depressing weather.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’d complain every day.”
“I think I’d be like one of those wolves.”
You stared at him. Then slowly lowered your sunglasses. “Common white man stealing from the Native Americans.”
“Jesus Christ.” Deran shoved you so hard you fell backward into the sand.
You shrieked. “DERAN!” Sand immediately filled your mouth. You sat up sputtering while he laughed so hard he nearly fell over himself. “Eat shit.”
“You deserved that.”
“I absolutely did not.”
You threw a handful of sand at him. Deran dodged it easily.
“You know I can’t leave now anyway,” he said after the laughter faded. “Not until you’re done with school.”
You brushed sand off your legs. “You could always go without me for now.”
Deran’s answer came immediately with no hesitation. “No.” The certainty surprised you. You looked over. He wasn’t joking anymore. “You’re the only person in this world who actually knows me, ya know?” Deran said quietly. “Like my other half.” Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “Would probably go crazy without you.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “You could find other friends.”
“No.”
“Deran.”
“Nope.”
“There’s eight billion people on Earth.”
“Yeah and they all suck.”
You laughed. “Then when I’m done I can do my residency there.”
He folded his arms behind his head. “I’ll wait.”
You stared at him. “That’s insane.”
“Probably.”
A comfortable silence settled between you for a few moments. The waves rolled in and out. Children screamed somewhere down the beach. A dog sprinted past chasing a tennis ball. Eventually you glanced over again. “Wouldn’t you miss your family?”
The question seemed to pull something out of him.Something tired. His smile disappeared. “You’re my family.” The answer came so quickly it caught you off guard “More than they are.”
You frowned. “That can’t be entirely true, D. You’re close with Craig.”
Deran picked up a shell and threw it toward the water. “Everything’s transactional with them.” You heard it then. The exhaustion. The disappointment. The sadness he usually buried beneath sarcasm and attitude. “I love Craig,” Deran admitted. “He’s my brother.” He paused. “But he isn’t the best person to be around when you wanna leave this kind of life behind.”
You nodded slowly. You didn’t really understand what he meant. Not fully. Deran rarely talked about his family. You knew pieces. Knew his mother was difficult. Knew she controlled people. Knew she’d done things to him growing up that still made him angry years later. But whenever the conversation drifted too close to specifics, Deran always pulled away.
You respected that.
“What about your other brother?” you asked. “The one in prison?”
Deran sighed. “Not really close with him either.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s like…” He searched for the words. “He’s unpredictable. I never know what version of him I’m getting.”
You nodded thoughtfully. “But you love them, right?” Deran looked over. “Love them enough to leave them?” The question lingered between you.
He knew exactly what you were asking. And instead of answering, he looked away toward the ocean. Purposefully.
“What’s that look for?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
You smiled.
Deran squinted at you through the sunlight “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you leaving behind?”
The answer came easier than it probably should have. “Nothing.”
Deran immediately gave you a look. You shrugged. “I don’t have a family.” The words sounded casual. Like they didn’t matter. But they did. You stared out toward the horizon. “My mom died when I was sixteen and the state tried to put me with my father so I just kinda ran.”
For once, Deran didn’t joke. “Where?”
“Uh… all over.” You dug your fingers into the warm sand. “Never stayed in one place for too long. I’d still go to school. Sometimes DCF would be there waiting for me but I’d sneak out the back door.” A small smile appeared despite yourself. “Honestly, I got pretty good at it.” Deran didn’t smile back. “I didn’t want to live with my father.”
“Why not?” The question was gentle. Careful.
You looked down. Ran your fingers through the sand. Trying to decide how much you wanted to say. “He just wasn’t a good father.” The words felt inadequate. Like calling a hurricane bad weather. You swallowed. “My parents had it all before me. White picket fence. Golden retriever. Baby girl on the way.” You laughed bitterly. “Then my mom gave birth and I fractured her tailbone. They gave her oxy and she got hooked before my first birthday.”
Deran’s expression softened. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
You shrugged. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. Not really. “My dad hated me though.” The words hung in the air. “I think every time he looked at me he saw everything that went wrong.” You kept your eyes fixed on the sand. “Used to take his anger out on me when my mom would get too high.” Deran went completely still. You barely noticed. “I was scared of him.” The ocean suddenly felt very loud. “They got divorced when I was eight.” Your voice grew quieter. “And I remember sitting on the floor in his office after my mom OD’d for the third time.”
You could see it. The room. The desk. The smell. Everything. “He was so angry.” Your throat tightened. “He had a gun.” Deran’s head snapped toward you. You didn’t look back. “I remember he asked me if I’d ever played Russian roulette.” Silence. The kind that made your ears ring. “I was so scared. Your fingers shook slightly as you dragged them through the sand. “He made me hold the gun and pull the trigger.”
Deran was quiet for a long moment after you finished speaking. The ocean rolled in and out beside you, waves hissing softly against the sand while gulls circled overhead. For once, he didn’t have some sarcastic comeback ready. For once, he just looked angry. Not at you. At what had happened to you.
“What the fuck?” he muttered again, dragging both hands over his face. “Who does that to a kid?”
You shrugged even though your chest felt tight. “He was angry.”
“That’s not anger.”
You looked down at the sand. “He never hit my mom.”
Deran barked out a humorless laugh “Congratulations.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” His voice sharpened enough that you finally looked over. Deran was staring out at the water now, jaw tight.
“My mom never did anything like that to me.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You said she was bad.”
Deran laughed once. “Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
For a second he seemed to debate how much he wanted to say. Then he sighed “When I was a kid she’d disappear for days.”
You frowned. “What?”
“She’d just leave.” He tossed a handful of sand into the wind. “Sometimes she’d take one of us. Sometimes she’d leave all of us. Sometimes she’d show back up like nothing happened.”
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“How old were you?”
“Too young.” The answer came immediately. Like he’d thought about it before. “One time Craig got sick. Really sick.” His jaw flexed “Fever. Couldn’t stop throwing up. We thought she was gonna take him to a doctor.”
You perked up immediately. “And?”
Deran snorted. “And she dropped him off with some neighbor and disappeared for two days.”
Your mouth fell open. “What?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s insane.”
“Welcome to my childhood.”
The two of you sat quietly for a second.
“What happened when she came back?”
Deran laughed.
“She brought him a toy.”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Did she apologize?”
He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “No.”
“Oh.”
“My mom doesn’t apologize.”
The statement came so matter-of-factly it almost made you sad. You picked at a loose thread on your towel. “Maybe she just didn’t know how.”
Deran actually laughed at that. “No.”
“No?”
“No.” He shook his head. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.” Something about the certainty in his voice made you glance over. Deran wasn’t smiling anymore “Everything’s a test with her.”
You frowned. “What does that mean?”
He was quiet.
“If you’re happy, she wants to know why.”
You looked confused.
“If you’re dating somebody, she wants to know whether they’re more important than her.”
A pause.
“If you get a job she doesn’t like, she tells you it’ll fail.”
Another pause.
“If you have a dream she doesn’t understand, she makes you feel stupid for wanting it.”
You swallowed. That sounded familiar. Way too familiar.
Deran looked over at you. “When I told her I wanted to own a bar one day, she laughed.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“What’d she say?”
He rolled his eyes. “‘Why would you do that when you could do something useful?’”
You scoffed. “That’s mean.”
“Exactly.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Now look at me.”
“You own a bar.”
“I own a bar.”
You smiled. “A pretty good one too.”
“A great one.”
“A mediocre one.”
“A fucking phenomenal one.”
You laughed. “There he is.”
Deran grinned. “There who is?”
“The dramatic little princess.”
“Fuck you.”
You laughed harder.
The sound carried out over the beach. For a second neither of you spoke. Then Deran’s expression softened. “Listen.” You looked over. “What your dad did?” His voice was quieter now. “That’s not normal.” You stared at him. “And I know you know that.” The wind tugged at your hair. “But I don’t think you believe it.” Your throat tightened. Deran pointed at you. “You got into med school.”
You groaned. “Don’t start with the med school stuff again.”
“No.” He pointed again. “I’m serious.”
“You always do this.”
“Because you act like it’s not a big deal.”
You rolled your eyes. “There are people way smarter than me.”
“Shut up.”
You laughed. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” His voice sharpened. “You got into one of the hardest schools in the state.”
You looked away. “Okay.”
“You survived your parents.” You looked away harder. “You put yourself through school.”
“D-”
“You’ve got a job.”
“Deran.”
“You don’t do drugs.”
“DERAN.”
“You somehow still like the general population.”
That finally made you laugh.
“There it is.” He pointed triumphantly. “That’s the smile.”
You shoved his shoulder. Deran smiled back. Then his expression softened again. “Your dad spent your entire life trying to convince you there was something wrong with you.”The joking disappeared completely. “There isn’t.”
You looked down at your hands. The words lodged somewhere deep inside your chest Uncomfortable. Because you wanted to believe them. You just didn’t know how.
Deran bumped his shoulder against yours “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“If my mom met your dad she’d probably hate him.”
That surprised a laugh out of you. “Why?”
“Because she’s got a monopoly on being the worst parent I’ve ever met.”
And for the first time all day, you laughed hard enough that your stomach hurt.
Deran grinned.
Mission accomplished.
Present
The apartment had been quiet for most of the morning. Not an uncomfortable quiet. Just one of those strange silences that happened after weeks of chaos, when everybody was finally too exhausted to keep fighting.
Pope had gone out a few hours ago. You hadn’t asked where. And he hadn’t volunteered the information. That had become the agreement. If it was something illegal, something Cody-related, something that would only make your stomach hurt knowing about it, you didn’t ask.
Pope respected that. It wasn’t because he wanted secrets between you. It was because he’d finally started understanding that loving someone didn’t mean dragging them into every ugly corner of your life.
So when the knock came at the apartment door around noon, you weren’t expecting it.
Especially not when you opened it and found Deran standing there.
For a second neither of you spoke. God. It was strange seeing him now.
Not through layers of anger and betrayal and grief. Just… Deran. Looking tired. Like the past few months had taken pieces out of him too.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.”
Another silence. Awkward. Not because you didn’t know what to say. Because there was too much to say. Finally you stepped aside “You gonna stand there all day?”
Deran snorted. “Maybe.”
“This shouldn’t be as weird as it is.” you said looking down at your feet nervously.
“Eh just a couple of friends talking about murder, no big deal.” Deran joked.
Despite yourself, you smiled. And something in Deran visibly relaxed. Enough for you to notice.
He stepped inside. The apartment still smelled like coffee and breakfast. Like home. Like Pope.
Deran’s eyes drifted around automatically. Taking everything in. The blankets on the couch. The dishes drying by the sink. Your shoes lined neatly near the door.
You lived here now. The realization seemed to hit him harder than he expected.
“You hungry?” you asked.
“No.”
“You look hungry.” you said raising your eyebrows.
“I’m not.”
“Let be honest here D, You always look hungry.”
“That’s rude.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be nice.” you smiled
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The first one you’d heard in what felt like forever.
Then the silence returned. Not awkward this time. Just heavy.
Eventually Deran rubbed the back of his neck. “You look better.”
You looked down. “You think?”
“Yeah.” The answer came immediately. Certain.
You swallowed. Because that almost made you cry. “You do too.”
Deran barked out a laugh. “That’s bullshit. Been missing you for months, it’s been hell.”
You smiled. “Okay maybe that’s bullshit.”
“Thank you.”
He shook his head before looking away. And suddenly there it was. The thing neither of you had talked about. The giant ugly thing sitting between you.
Nate. Everything that came after. Everything that broke. Everything that changed. Deran stared at the floor.
Then Deran spoke quietly. “I’m not sorry.”
You blinked. “What?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not sorry I killed him. His eyes finally lifted to yours. “I won’t apologize for that.”
Your chest tightened. Not because you were angry. Because you already knew. You’d known for a while now. The more Pope told you. The more truths you learned. The more pieces clicked into place.
You understood. Not the violence. Not completely. Maybe you never would. But you understood why. Nate had been hurting you long before that night. Long before anyone else realized. Long before you’d even admitted it to yourself.
Deran looked almost braced for impact. Like he expected this to be the moment everything fell apart again.
Instead you shook your head. “I know.” The words hit him so hard he physically froze. “I know, Deran.”
His face twisted slightly. Confusion. Relief. Pain. All tangled together.
You leaned back against the counter. “He would’ve killed me eventually.”
Deran immediately looked away. Because that was the part he hated. The part that still haunted him. Not killing Nate. The fact he’d gotten close enough to do it. The fact he’d put his hands on you. The fact nobody stopped it sooner.
“He was getting worse,” you continued quietly. “Every year. Every excuse. Every apology.”
Deran swallowed. Hard. “I know.”
“I know you do.”
The apartment went silent. For a long moment neither of you moved. Then suddenly Deran laughed. Except it wasn’t really laughter. It sounded too close to breaking. “Remember that day at the beach?”
you smiled “When you punched nate?”
“You thanked me.”
Your eyebrows furrowed wondering why he was bringing it up.
“After.” His eyes were glassy now. He looked furious about it. Like the memory of him touching you genuinely offended him. “You were scared outta your mind and you still thanked me.”
Your throat tightened immediately. Because you remembered. You remembered every second of it.
Deran scrubbed a hand down his face. “You should’ve hated me.” The words came out rough. “You should hate all of us.”
“What?”
He laughed again. That same broken laugh “You should. Especially now that you know what we are.”
“No.”
“You should.” Deran looked at you. Really looked at you. And for the first time you realized he genuinely believed that. Somewhere deep down. He thought you’d eventually wake up and realize they weren’t worth loving. That all the damage would finally outweigh everything else. “You don’t get it,” he said quietly.
“I think I do.”
“No.” His voice cracked. “We ruin everything.”
The tears hit your eyes immediately. Because God. There it was. The thing none of them ever said out loud. The thing living underneath every Cody. Shame. Deep. Rotting. Generational shame.
“We destroy everything we touch.”
“No, you don’t.”
“We do.”
“No.”
“You have no idea how much shit I’ve done.”
You stepped closer. “So have I.”
Deran actually rolled his eyes. “Oh please.”
“I’m serious.”
“You stole a candy bar when you were twelve.”
“It was multiple candy bars.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You smiled through your tears. And somehow that broke him. Because suddenly Deran’s eyes were wet too. Neither of you acknowledged it. Of course not. That would’ve required emotional maturity.
Instead he stared at the ceiling. Blinking hard. “You really don’t hate me?”
The question came out so quiet it almost hurt. You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe he’d carried that around this whole time. That he’d genuinely thought this friendship was over forever.
Your eyes immediately filled. “Deran.” His jaw clenched. “You really thought that?”
He looked away.Which was answer enough.
“Oh my God.” You laughed. Half crying now “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah.”
“I could never hate you.”
Deran swallowed hard. Looking suspiciously close to crying himself. “You punched a guy in the face for me the day we met.”
To everyone who’s ever mentioned my Bambi series as one of their favorites, thank you. Truly. It means more to me than I can put into words.
I don’t always see every post or notification when I’m tagged, but I just came across one today and saw my series being talked about. I was honestly a little sad I’d missed it when it was first posted because getting to see people thinking about and loving something I poured so much of myself into is such a special feeling.
You all are so incredibly sweet, and every kind word, recommendation, comment, and tag means the world to me. Thank you for reading, for caring about Bambi, and for giving my little stories a place in your lives. I appreciate you more than you know.
