You're a Warning Sign
This is my first Animal Kingdom/Pope Cody fic. I've been writing for a long time, but I've never really used Tumblr for fics until my obsession with Shawn Hatosy. It's nice to have company in this place where we all want to bite dem tiddies, so I figured I'd post my first AK fic here.
Tags: aftermath of canon-typical violence, very incomplete descriptions of back-alley healthcare, no sex this time (but maybe in chapter 2?)
Pope Cody moves through your life like a ghost. He’s quiet, watchful, there and gone before you turn around or have a chance to catch more than a glimpse of him. A lingering scent left in the air by some kind of body wash or deodorant: generic, clean, and always the same.
You end up in the same places sometimes. Once, at a beach bonfire that you were invited to by a friend of a friend, and he was there to pick up Craig and Deran. A brief second of eye contact is what you got, but when you turned back to glance as they were leaving, he was looking back at you with an unreadable stare that the darkness made impossible to decipher.
Another time, you wanted tacos, so you stopped by your favorite food truck. The covered picnic tables close by give you a fantastic view of the owner of the truck (who you’re pretty sure sells drugs out of the back) getting threatened within an inch of his life by Pope. You couldn’t hear their “conversation,” but whatever it was about didn’t concern you. When he left, you tossed him a jaunty salute as you chewed, not thinking about the slight widening of his eyes before he shut down any emotions that could be gleaned from that far away.
A few times, you’ve been at his mother’s house for a party, and you’ve seen him watching from behind one of the sliding glass doors, nursing a beer in the corner of the yard, or cleaning up after people, which appears a lot like trying to catch water in a sieve when it’s done during the party.
You know of his family, everyone in Oceanside does, but you know him best. He’s not the only one who sees things, sees people. You’ve always watched, noticed, gathered information that you could use later down the road. You know he moves either like a predator or like a child, with no real half-measures, but he can cycle through those two in a snap. You know that he’s dangerous, but also love- and touch-starved. You’ve seen the way his mother’s eyes watch him, the way her hands tangle around him, the intimate whispers she breathes into his ear that would leave a less stoic person shivering and uneasy.
You see that he needs it, seems to need her, but the way his face shuts down when she’s close tells you that he doesn’t necessarily want her near him.
Nonetheless, she’s the sun that the Cody boys all orbit, held there by a gravity that they can’t seem to escape.
Not to mention the rumors that circled when Baz was killed. You never liked him, but Smurf was his mother in all the ways that mattered, and she was the one rumored to have paid for his death. No one in your circles says that out loud, though. It’s just something on the minds of those who live at the edges of the world the Codys touch.
Regardless, Pope Cody is ridiculously attractive, even with the mess of demons floating around in his mind. Not that you’d ever pursued him, but that wasn’t because of him–that had to do with Smurf. You saw what happened to the ones that the Cody boys became attached to, and you’d like to stay off of Smurf’s radar as much as possible.
You’d survived a turbulent childhood, like so many others who grew up poor in that area. Drugs were rampant and crime was everywhere, so you learned to keep your head down, stay watchful, and keep your fucking mouth shut. You didn’t grow up in the affluent neighborhood that the Codys did, but you did live pretty close to Baz before he was whisked away, “saved” by Smurf.
You weren’t sure that being taken in by Smurf was a positive, but at least Baz got fed every day while he finished growing. You were too tangential to be really close to any of them, but, again, it wasn’t a bad thing. You’d drunkenly slept with Craig a couple times, thankfully not gone enough to forego the condom since you weren’t interested in having chlamydia.
Another time, you’d had a really terrible makeout session with Deran after a bonfire, which ended in a really confusing conversation about how he was just too drunk to keep going. It was a lie, you were the drunk one, but that was fine. That had been during your “sleep on the beach” phase when going home wasn’t an option, so it was just nice that he had let you stay the night and sleep in an actual bed.
You’d worked different jobs for a few years before saving up enough money and courage to start in a nursing program at a local community college. You sprinted your way through school with your hair on fire, while still working two jobs and averaging about three hours of sleep a night for two years. It had paid off for you, getting you a job offer right out of school at the local trauma center.
Your ability to compartmentalize and stay calm in fucked up situations helped you move up in rank, and the hospital had agreed to help you pay for nurse practitioner school in exchange for a 3-year, post-graduation contract. Your well-practiced skills in observation helped you in dealing with tricky cases or difficult patients, and you had made yourself an asset in the emergency department.
Wild job aside, life is pretty simple for you these days–work, sleep, chores, the occasional drive down to the beach to enjoy the sounds and smells of the ocean.
You're leaving work when a black truck pulls up next to you on the sidewalk about two blocks away from the hospital. You're wary of it, reaching for the knife in your bag, until the window rolls down and Deran Cody sticks his head out and calls your name, eyes red and face serious.
“You're a nurse now, right?” There's blood splattered on his shirt and upward onto his neck, and his hand is more red than skin color. You just nod. “Can you help us out with something? Like. Right now?”
“Fuck,” you say but hop in the back seat when the door unlocks. Maybe you have a soft spot for Deran. Maybe you have a deathwish.
Pope is driving, glancing at you periodically through the rearview mirror as he absolutely shreds the speed limits on the way to, you assume, the Cody house. His eyes are intense, and someone else might think he's simply furious, but to you, he looks like he's just trying to keep a lid on his emotions, whatever they are.
Maybe he is angry. But he's something else too.
“What's going on?” you ask, voice steady despite basically being kidnapped after a double shift.
Eyes in the rearview bore through you once more, which you hold with your own, raising an eyebrow until Deran turns halfway around. You can see him in profile, so you shift your focus to the Cody willing to talk to you.
“Craig got hurt. It's bad.”
Okay, you guess he's just the Cody willing to throw some monosyllables your way.
“I'd like to know what I'm walking into,” you press, calm but authoritative.
A beat of silence passes as Deran looks over at Pope, but Pope simply keeps his gaze between the road and you.
“Gunshot wounds,” Pope grinds out, a hint of worry flashing behind his eyes as he gauges your reaction. You don't give one. You work at the trauma center in Oceanside. GSWs are just another Tuesday night.
Granted, they usually come to you at your workplace.
“Where?” Again, Pope's eyes flick to yours through the mirror, but focus back on the road before he answers.
“Shoulder, arm.” He trails off and clears his throat before continuing. “Neck.” Fuck. That's really bad.
“How long ago?”
“About 20 minutes,” Deran answers, quietly. Even with the way Pope is driving, you’re still a good 15 minutes away from the house. At least.
“How much blood?” Depending on that, Craig might already be dead by the time they got you there–and that's only if you had the supplies and enough expertise to help. You were a healthcare provider and worked with trauma patients, but you weren't a doctor.
“A lot? What the fuck do you mean, how much blood? He was shot.” Deran is no longer quiet, and is starting to sound a bit hysterical.
“No outward arterial bleeding. Looks like it missed his carotid,” Pope cuts in, voice low.
“What kind of supplies do you have?”
“Well, he's at my bar, so not much,” Deran scoffs, like you're supposed to have known. You like Deran, mostly, so you're gonna give him a pass since his brother might be dead. Dying. Whatever. At least the bar is closer than the house.
“I have a first aid kit back there on the floor.” You look down and spot it, next to your feet. Picking it up, you're surprised how heavy it is and get hopeful that there are more than bandaids and peroxide inside.
When you unzip it, you whistle when you realize that it's an EMS jump bag, complete with meds and everything. That's promising, at least.
“You don't happen to have a defib in here too?” you ask dryly, sorting through the hemostatic dressings and tourniquets.
“No.” You're about to tell Pope you were joking when the truck stops abruptly, and you notice that you're already behind The Drop.
You worked for Deran at one point when you were in college, and it doesn't look like the place had changed at all. You all three jump out, you loop the jump bag over your shoulder and follow behind the boys.
When the back door opens, you hear three very loud voices overlapping. You can easily pick out Craig's pained grunts, but the other voices are just angry noise.
You walk in, Pope and Deran moving to the sides of the table that Craig is laying on, and assess the scene. Some teenage kid is attempting to put pressure on Craig's neck, but Craig keeps moving, prompting the kid to keep yelling at him to hold still. There's a woman holding pressure to Craig's shoulder and dodging his left arm, which is swinging wildly.
“Shut the fuck up,” you call out forcefully, not shouting but making it clear who is now in charge of this chaos, needing to get to work as soon as possible. Everyone stops and looks at you, except Craig, who keeps wrestling against everyone, as you tug on a pair of gloves and move closer to the table.
“Craig,” you call, smacking him lightly on the cheek to get his attention. He stops, eyes a bit unfocused as he looks at you. “I need you to be really still so I can try and fix you, okay?” you ask, voice light but steady.
He blinks slowly at you, but grunts out, “Okay.” You take a quick look at his neck, but it doesn't look too terrible, honestly. A pretty deep graze, but Pope was right. No arterial bleeding. His forearm wasn't terrible either, but he would need to see someone to check it for nerve damage.
“Okay, just your shoulder left,” you chatter to no one in particular as you pull back the cloth that the woman was holding against him. Bingo. Bright red blood is quickly pumping out of the hole as soon as the compression is gone.
“Okay, does anyone know if Craig did any drugs recently?” you ask as you start pulling supplies from the bag. Hemostatic gauze, forceps, saline flushes, IV supplies, morphine.
“What? I don’t know, just fix him!” Deran shouts, aggravating Craig’s hard-fought calm.
“I need to fix his shoulder so he doesn’t bleed out, but that won’t matter if I dose him with morphine and that makes him OD because he’s on some other shit,” you snap back. You look back to Craig, who is once again moving, albeit more sluggishly than before.
“Craig, have you done anything other than coke in the last day?” you ask, getting in his face and speaking clearly. You know his drug of choice. Everyone knows his drug of choice. He blinks slowly at you, eyebrows pinched together in pain and confusion. He whispers your name, brain unable to reconcile why you’re asking him about his drug use.
“No?” he says, more like a question than an answer. You start on an IV, thankful that he’s still got veins that haven’t collapsed. That’s a good sign.
“Okay, well, if you’re lying and I give you this morphine, you might OD, so better tell me now.” He blinks again, more rapidly now, and thinks.
“No, just coke and alcohol.” Nodding, you give him one dose of morphine through his IV and watch as he relaxes back against the table.
“It’s gonna hurt, okay? Even with the meds.” He doesn’t open his eyes, but he does nod. You look up at the rest of the people surrounding the table.
“Deran, Pope, hold him still.” You look at the teenager, still putting pressure on his neck wound. “You’re going to hand me things I need when I ask for them, and you,” you point to the woman next to you, “are going to help me out.”
Roles assigned, you tape down fresh gauze against the neck and arm wounds while everyone gets in position. You pull the rag away from his shoulder, and prepare to do something you’ve only ever watched actual doctors do.
“Get ready everyone,” you warn, and then you’re sticking your finger into Craig’s shoulder wound, attempting to find the damaged artery. Craig yells, his voice broken and weak, but it dies quickly as he passes out. “Check his pulse,” you tell the woman while you keep searching.
“Still there,” she replies. You nod, shifting just a bit, and…there. You can feel the bullet fragment and the artery, steadily pumping blood out of it and into the soft tissues of his shoulder.
“Hand me the forceps,” you say to the kid without looking. He puts them in your hand upside down, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s what, 16? 17? And looking at Craig bleeding out. You take a deep breath. “Put them on my fingers, I can’t move my other hand right now.” He does, and you guide the clamps right above your finger before pinching off the blood flow. Carefully pulling your finger out with the fragment, you watch the wound for other bleeders, but it seems like just the one. A big one, but still just one.
“What are you gonna do?” Deran asks, still pressing down on his chest even though he’s unconscious. You sigh.
“Something that I’ve only ever seen done in the OR by surgeons.”
“What?” Pope questions sharply, turning his focus from Craig to you.
“You guys kidnapped a nurse, not a fucking vascular surgeon. I’m doing what I can,” you say as you use the saline flushes to irrigate the wound so you can see what you’re doing. “Next time you need an artery fixed, go find an actual doctor and leave me the fuck out of it.” You realize that you’re fucking angry to be pulled into this shit. Not that you’re an innocent little flower, but you worked really hard to not have to resort to illegal means to survive and to have a job that you find fulfilling, and they’re fucking that up.
“I thought you went through the extra school shit, you’re like a doctor-nurse or something.” Deran looks distraught, but he’s not really yelling at you. You’re still pissed, though.
“I’m a nurse practitioner, which means that I work under a doctor and can’t do complex procedures like sewing together an artery, you fucking–” you shake your head. Now isn’t the time. “I’m going to do my best to stabilize him, and then you are going to find an actual doctor to make sure he’s good. I don’t have the supplies here to fix an artery long term.”
Pope just nods, more to himself than you, eyes wide and unreadable.
“So, what do you need?” he asks, seemingly chagrined. That’s interesting.
“I need someone to find a fucking flashlight or something, and hold it over the wound.” You look through the jump bag, and throw up some silent gratitude for whoever added the retractors and sterile gloves. The woman next to you pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight, flashing it in Craig’s eyes by accident and waking him up.
“What the fuck,” he groans, peeking over at his shoulder and blanching at the forceps sticking out of him. His uninjured arm moves toward them, but Pope grabs his arm and presses it back into the table. You gather your supplies, and pull on the sterile gloves, grabbing the suture kit.
“Craig, listen to me,” your tone brooks no nonsense, and he snaps to you. “I have to try and sew up your artery. It’s going to fucking hurt, but you’ve got to hold still or I could kill you, okay?”
“Oh fuck,” he says, head falling back onto the table with a thud. You guess that’s as good as you’re gonna get from him, so you take a deep breath and start working.
About 20 minutes later, you release the forceps and everyone waits with baited breath to see if the bleeding starts back up.
It doesn’t, thank fucking god.
You clean and suture his other wounds in silence, him knocked out with another dose of morphine and the others silent around you. Once you’re finished, you ask for a sink to wash your hands.
Pope walks you back to the bathroom so you can clean up.
“You need to take him to an actual doctor with the right supplies. I did my best, but it won’t hold long term.” He gives a barely noticeable nod, looking at the floor. “Also, if you give me something to write on, I’ll put down the meds he needs to fight off infection. He’ll have to take them so he doesn’t go septic, so find them ASAP.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly as you’re drying your hands.
“Well, I didn’t have a choice, so.” You push past him and walk back out into the main room, finding everyone in the same spot with either empty or refilled glasses in front of them. Deran's eyes are on Craig as he sleeps, a little unfocused, but still watching.
“Give me your phone,” Pope says from behind you. It’s soft, but it’s an order.
“No,” you reply, turning to face him.
“So you can text me the list of meds he needs.” You narrow your eyes at him, knowing that's not all it is.
“I will write the meds down.” The two of you enter a stare off, his dangerous, yours determined. “You don’t scare me, Pope Cody. We might not have grown up together, but we did grow up in the same circles. Fucking give me a piece of paper or go without the info.” The air is charged, but you refuse to look away from Pope.
“Fuck, fine, here,” Deran huffs, coming around the bar with a strip of receipt paper. “Write it down, whatever it is, and I’ll take you home.”
“I will take her home,” Pope cuts in, but allows you to scribble down the names and dosages of the antibiotics Craig will need. He briefly turns his attention to Deran. “Call our southern friends. Arrange a visit for Craig. I’ll be back to help after I drop her off.” You assume he means a doctor over the border, but you don’t comment on it. They’re already twitchy as fuck, and you don’t need them to assume you’re more trouble than you’re worth.
On the way out, you pass the kid, who looks just as blank as Pope often does, and you can’t help but wonder.
“How old are you, kid?” His eyes snap to yours, but he doesn’t give anything away. There’s something unsettling about him, but that’s not your problem.
“Old enough,” he replies and goes back over to the bar, dismissing any further comment from you. Right. So he’s also a Cody. You still haven’t figured out who the woman is, but it really doesn’t matter at this point. She didn’t speak to you, just held the light where it needed to be when you asked. You really don’t appreciate being pulled back into this shit again, so there's no need to ask more questions.. But, well.
It’s Craig. And Pope.
The ride to your house is, as expected, mostly silent. You don’t ask how Pope knows where you live, but you’re also not surprised. He parks by the curb, but when you reach for the door handle, he grabs your arm to stop you. It’s not a tight grip, but it has purpose.
“Thank you. Really.” You look at him again, a charged beat passing between you, but you can’t put your finger on why it feels electric.
“Like I said, didn’t really have a choice.” You try to leave again, but he holds your arm a little tighter.
“You could have run,” he says, like that would have mattered.
“It was Craig. You would have chased me down.” He looks down. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” he looks back up to your face, and you find yourself liking the honesty.
He finally does let you go, but then he’s pulling an envelope out of the center console and holding out toward you.
“I don’t want your money,” you protest.
“Please–,” he starts.
“No, I don’t want it. I am not going to be your on-call medical care whenever one of your jobs goes bad.” He leans back, eyes going sharper. Like you don’t know how they make their money.
“Don’t do that, Pope. I’m not stupid. I know what you guys do, and it’s not real estate. I grew up here too. I’m not gonna run my mouth. Hell, half the cops are on your payroll and the other half are on the Trujillos’.” He still doesn’t move, watching your eyes like he can see through to the thoughts in your brain. Maybe he can, who knows?
You breathe out a harsh laugh. Maybe you have a soft spot for all the Cody boys. Maybe you just find Pope really fucking sexy, and it’s been like six months since you’ve fucked anyone. Seven? Jesus.
“Fine, give it here. I’ll take it, as long as this doesn’t happen again, deal?” He’s not even looking at you anymore, his gaze has wandered over to the dash, but it’s not focused.
“Pope,” you say, softer.
“Andrew. Call me Andrew,” he says, and hands you the envelope, folding your fingers over it.
“Andrew then.” And because you’re a fucking stupid person, you add, “So, if you ever need to get out of that head of yours for a night, let me know, but otherwise, don’t bring your shit to my doorstep.” You let yourself grin at the surprise on his face, but then you’re tucking the envelope into your pocket and heading to your door without looking back. He waits until you’re in the house before he puts the truck in gear again, headlights flashing through the living room curtains as he turns the truck around and drives away.
You try not to think about how he didn’t agree to keep you out of their bullshit.
By the time you’ve showered Craig’s blood off and crawled into bed, you have a text from a number you don’t recognize.
What do you mean, ‘get out of my head for a night’?
You just send back a generic smiley face and put your phone on silent. You’ve earned this sleep, and not even the oldest Cody brother is going to keep you from it.
Even if you dream about his raspy voice for the first time in years.
❤️❤️❤️
