hi, i’m violet! she/her. eighteen. usa. 1960s babydoll.
bucky’s controversially younger gf. captain america
lover. sebastian stan fangirl. trinity santos irl.
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you scrape your knees by the pool, pope attempts to fix it
pairings: pope cody x bunny reader
warnings: fem!reader, reader wearing a dress, minor injury, scraped knees, blood, wound clearning, hurt/comfort, protective pope cody, possessive thoughts, pope calls read kid, pope calls reader doll, reader has freckles bc i wanted to be self indulgent!!!!, grumpy caretaker pope
wc: 2k
Pope finds you sitting on the low concrete step out back with your legs folded to one side. Delicate and stunned-looking in the harsh afternoon lift. A figurine dropped by accident and left there because nobody wanted to be the first to check for cracks.
You haven’t been drinking, he knows that much. You don’t really drink to begin with. Not in excess, anyway.
He scans you to find the problem. Head. Fine. Chest. More than fine. Stomach. Normal.
Knees.
Your knees are scraped raw.
The marks are not serious, technically. But serious enough that the skin has split open into two wet little blooms, blood bright against the grit, dust clinging where it shouldn’t. It runs down your shins in thin, crooked tributaries, and he hates it.
Hates the sight so sharply it feels like a physical punch. Hates that the world got its hands on you for five seconds and already made a mess of what it shouldn’t have touched. Someone like you who is so pure and untouched.
Pope stops where he is.
His hand closes at his side. Opens again. That is his first correction. The second is his face, which he makes blank, or tries to, because you’re already looking up at him, head snapping back too hard, and his mind supplies the sound of it hitting the door before it happens.
It doesn’t happen. Still, his jaw tightens. Careless with yourself, he thinks.
You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand, and say, “I’m fine.”
No, you’re not, he wants to say. Who the fuck taught you to say that so fast?
Instead he takes a few careful steps toward you, keeping his face still, keeping everything locked down, even as the agitation climbs up the back of his neck.
If he gets close enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly. Where the damage starts. Who he’s supposed to blame.
“What happened, kid?”
You sniff once and straighten your back. Brave little thing. Ridiculous little thing. “Nothing.”
Pope doesn’t respond. His eyes stay on you, molten enough to become a thing in the yard, another source of heat in the sun, and he can feel himself doing it only after your fingers move to your mouth. One neat pink nail presses into the swell of your lip, picks at it, worries the softness there.
He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to take your hand away from your mouth. Wants too many things, which is usually the first sign that he should do nothing at all. So he waits for you to fold.
He knows the first answer was bullshit. Flimsy as tissue paper and he lets it tear on its own.
“I tripped,” you admit finally.
“Where?” he asks.
Your lashes are wet when you blink up at him, clumped together in little dark points, and your mouth does that small uncertain thing, twitching at one corner like you’re embarrassed to explain yourself.
“By the pool,” you say. “There was, like, a crack. Or something.”
He knows the crack. He can see it without looking, some warped seam in the concrete by the shallow end, something everyone steps over, steps around, ignores because it’s just part of the house being what it is. Broken things everywhere. Broken people too.
But you didn’t know to look for it. You move through the Cody house like bad things are theoretical, like the ground itself wouldn’t dare rise up and bite you. It did anyway.
Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose and drops into a crouch in front of you.
Bad idea, probably. Everything is worse down here. It’s inflamed, scratches packed with dirt, blood drying in jagged lines.
You don’t like that part. The mess. He can tell by way your hands twitch helplessly in your lap, like you want to wipe it away, clean it up, make yourself presentable again, but the pain is winning.
Your dress, meanwhile, is perfect. Some pink little sundress cut high over your thighs. No wrinkles or stray staining.
From where he is, he could see up it if he tried. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes where they belong, on the blood, on the damage, on the part of you he can pretend is the only thing he wants to touch. For now.
You try to pull your leg back the second he reaches for your ankle, some quick little prey-animal flinch that might’ve worked on someone less ready for it.
Pope catches you easily. His hand wraps firm before you can get very far. Not hard enough to hurt, not gentle enough to suggest he’s asking.
“Quit that.”
“It stings,” you protest.
“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tends to happen when you eat shit.”
Your bottom lip wobbles. You gather it back up so quickly it almost disappears, smoothing the expression off your face like a ripple flattening on water, and Christ, you’re pretty when you cry.
It’s a rotten thought. He knows that. He knows that, and still his body reacts before morality can catch up, because his body is old violence and bad wiring and appetite with a pulse.
He drags his thumb down the line of your calf, feather-light, careful to avoid the scrape itself, as if gentleness in one place could cancel out the ugliness in another, as if he could make himself clean by touching you like you’re made of glass.
“You cryin’?” Rhetorical. More of an indictment.
“No.”
“You are.”
“‘M not.” A tear slips free and runs down your cheek as you say it.
Pope watches the trajectory, the thin shine over warm skin. He wants to lean in and taste it. Salt. Flesh. Proof. He kills the urge under the toe of his boot.
You stare past him, surely furious with yourself for the anatomical betrayal.
He lets out a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh and shakes his head. “Tough girl, huh?”
You nod right away, stubborn as hell. “Mhm.”
Another tear comes down. That settles it. Pope looks at it, then at you. Tough girl. Sure. Tough like a rabbit holding still under a hawk shadow.
“C’mere,” he says.
“Why?”
“So I can clean it.”
Your eyes widen immediately, suspicious now, all that fragile toughness collapsing into practical fear. “Is it gonna hurt?”
“It’ll hurt more if I don’t.”
He’s not actually sure that’s true, but he doesn’t know how else to sell this to you. He just knows he doesn’t want you leaving gravel in there and calling it day.
This patio has probably seen every kind of gross substance known to man. Beer, mud, oil, spit, ash, drugs, blood. A dozen things he doesn’t want in your skin. Enough random bacteria to make him think infection before anything else. Enough that he can already picture your knees tomorrow, swollen and pink and you still insisting it’s nothing.
It seems convincing enough for you because you let him pull you up, though you hiss when your knees straighten.
Stiff little steps. Swallowed noises. A terrible attempt at limping in a way he won’t notice, as if Pope has ever missed anything in his life, as if he might tease you for it.
He probably will, a little, because sometimes teasing gets you moving better than sympathy does, but not much.
Inside, he sets you on the bathroom counter and starts digging through the cabinet for peroxide and gauze. The bathroom is too small for both of you. It shows in the way he can clearly inhale the flowery perfume you have on. Sprayed at the base of your throat and insides of your wrists, most likely.
When he turns back, you’ve gone very still, hands braced on either side of your hips, shoulders pulled up nearly to your ears, eyes fixed on the brown bottle like it might lunge at you.
“I don’t like that.”
“No one likes it.”
You pull a face, and your foot kicks forward once, restless and nervous. Your heel brushes his side. Barely. An accident. Pope feels it through his shirt like a warning shot. You retract your foot immediately.
“Well, I like it less than most people,” you mutter.
He steps in between your knees before you can fuss any more, the cap twisting loose between his fingers.
“I think you’re being a little bit of a baby,” he says, then, before you can get offended, adds, “which is fine.” The cap clicks against the counter. “You can sit there and look at me like I’m about to torture you if that helps. But I’m still gonna clean it.” His eyes flick to your mouth, to the pout already threatening there. “You can do that too. Still not gettin’ out of it.”
You seem to consider pushing back one more time, then don’t.
“...Kay,” you say, barely above a mumble. Giving in. Like you’ve made up your mind, like you’ve already accepted he knows what’s happening next better than you do and you’re fine with that.
He isn’t sure how to feel about that.
“Hold still.”
The peroxide strikes the raw skin and you jolt under his hand, a soft whimper escaping before you can swallow it back, your eyes pinching shut like that might save you from the burning.
Pope gets a hand around your thigh before you can yank it your leg back, a quick learner when it comes to your habits.
“Easy,” he says, tipping the bottle back. “You’re alright.” Another careful pour, less this time. Another little flinch. “You’re doing good, doll. Almost done with the worst of it.”
Your lips push out further, eyes going a little softer and shinier. You shift toward him, knees parting just a little more around where he stands, one hand coming off the counter to catch at his side, then his shirt, then just staying there.
He wipes away the last of the pink fizz and dirt in slow passes.
“There. See? Survived.” He reaches for the bandaids, peels one open with his teeth, and smooths it over the first scrape with the flare of his thumb. Then the second, just as careful. “Wasn’t so bad.”
“Easy for you to say.” Your hand stays bunched in his shirt, fingers curled into the cotton like you forgot you were holding on or decided not to care.
Pope looks down at it for half a second too long, then back to the bandaid before it can become anything. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. Sorry, kid.” He presses the left bandaid down where it’s already trying to peel at the edge. “Next time watch where you’re going, yeah? Makes my life easier.”
Your nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Freckles dotted across the bridge, fanning outward in a constellation of sorts. “Sounds like victim blaming to me.”
“You can be a victim and careless with your well-being at the same time.”
You cock your head at him, considering this, “So… are you done now?”
“Mhm. Done.” His hands settle at your waist and lifts you back off the counter, steadying you once wobbling feet hit the floor.
You look up at him then, and your mouth softens into a small, toothless smile. It’s already too much for him. Already better than the pinched-up expressions you’ve been wearing since he found you outside.
He almost makes the mistake of pointing it out. Before he can, you rise to your tip toes, light hands still at his sides for balance, and press those pretty lips to his cheek, just off his mouth.
When you pull away, your teeth find your lower lip and you look at him from under your lashes. “Thank you, Andrew.”
He wants, suddenly and stupidly, to tell you not to thank him for things like that, not for basic shit, not for cleaning blood off your knees like it’s some grand gesture. But then again maybe in your life it is. Maybe that’s the part that makes something protective rise in him.
So all he says is, “Yeah,” low and rough, like the word cost him a little. He keeps a hand at your waist a second longer than necessary before he lets you go. Watches you walk away.
Later, when you’re distracted somewhere inside the house, he goes back out and finds the crack by the pool.
He fixes it the next day.
A/N - popping my pope cody fanfic cherry!!!!!! yipee
ACTUALLY im getting a little tired of hearing about your mommy issues michael i would love to have a season delving into dr. jack abbot’s complex history of service and ptsd and loss of his wife and loss of his leg and everything going on in that head
tbh i do think i will write this im just gonna wait until i finish animal kingdom bc i want to write some backstory abt his childhood and i haven’t gotten through all the flashbacks yet
bro i’m actually gonna need shawn hatosy to chill with the quinn content because every time i open tiktok i have a little heart attack and it really can’t be good for me
