Undercover Dreamer

[writing-my-inside-thoughts]

Fire Country's writing for medical events is SO BAD.

I'm pushing through for Shawn Hatosy but I don't know how much longer I can do this.

Did they consult ANY medical professionals??? Or just ignore them when they spoke??

You know how Michael Scott pulled a gun in every improv scene? That's what the writers did but with CPR. Everyone gets compressions. Everyone comes back to life. I swear I saw 5 different administrations of CPR in one episode.

They called out a pupillary check on a pulseless person. A firefighter checked someone's pulse, said "good!" and "airway is patent" and then immediately started CPR. I've watched a sternal rub get performed on someone's stomach. A kid arrested from status asthmaticus and CPR somehow made him able to breathe again.

I live in LA. Begging for one of these shit medical shows to hire me. Jesus Christ.

[writing-my-inside-thoughts]

Same Time Tomorrow

Synopsis: When Andrew breaks up with you, you do what you know best. Self destruct. But will he let you?

Pairing: Andrew Cody x reader/you, no use of y/n

TWs: Mentions of drinking, brief mention of drugs, toxic reader, borderline stalker Andrew

Word count: 1,051

You tip your head back, mind swimming pleasantly from the tequila shots you definitely didn't buy, bass thumping in your chest. The crown of your hair brushes someone's chest while their arms wind around your waist, pushing their hips into your ass. You bite back a smile but don't bother turning around. They can remain a faceless extra. They're not why you're here.

With your eyes shut, you can almost forget that you're alone in this club in your tightest, shortest mini dress. Begging for attention, you can practically hear Andrew's voice in your ear. It only spurs you on. Your arm reaches behind you to anchor on the back of your mystery man's neck for balance. These stilettos aren't doing your alcohol induced lack of coordination any favors.

It's been three months since Andrew broke up with you, practically out of nowhere. No, that's not true. Smurf had learned of your existence and pressured him into inviting you over for dinner. At first, you'd been happy. He'd kept you so separate from them that you were starting to get a complex that he was ashamed of you in some way. Maybe you were too young, not pretty enough, not edgy enough...

But once you got there and saw the shark-like grin, the dead eyed stare-- you knew. He was protecting you. Sure, you'd heard some stories about her, Baz, Julia. But nothing could've prepared you for being there in the flesh.

So beautiful, she'd practically purred. I can see why he hid you from his brothers.

But it didn't feel like a compliment. It felt like a thinly veiled threat.

After that night, he was harder to reach. Missing calls where before he'd only let it ring once before answering. Taking hours to text back. Suddenly getting busy. You were no stranger to getting blown off. It didn't make the ache in your chest hurt any less though.

No one had been devoted to you like Andrew had. So reliable. So protective. You knew he'd die for you, kill for you-- though you'd never ask him to. But now he couldn't even fucking talk to you.

Just... over it, he'd said. Like you were a trend that had passed. A hobby he'd grown bored of. Maybe you would have put up a fight if his expression hadn't been as frigid as the Pacific in January. How could you argue with him when he looked through you like some sort of stranger? The love that used to live there was gone. There was no convincing him otherwise.

Someone healthier would've coped. Gone to therapy or the gym or gotten a new haircut. But you? You were barely surviving when you met Andrew. He was a fire hose in a drought and you were ready to drink him down until you drowned. And now? Now, you had to find other vices to fill your time.

Drinking, smoking, walking down alleys at night, following strange men's invitations to their apartments or bathrooms... anything to quiet the flayed nerves where your heart used to be.

It started out destructive. You truly didn't care if any given night was your last. Maybe a part of you knew. Certainly, a part of you hoped.

The man behind you puts his chapped lips on your neck, sloppily licking the sweat kissed skin behind your ear. You tense, enjoying this much less than the dancing. You go to step forward, but his fingers dig into your hip, bordering on painful.

"Just relax," he whispers in your ear. His breath smells like stale beer and cigarettes. This isn't fun anymore.

Before there's a chance for your body to feel the fear that should be coming, cool air hits your back from his absence. Your hair gently billows around your cheeks from the force of it. A quiet knowing joins the warmth of liquor in your veins. Finally. You turn to meet the hazel eyes you look for in every room.

The guy has already fucked off, probably long gone after having the shit scared out of him by whatever Andrew said. Except, it's not Andrew, is it? No, the scowl he wears and heave of his shoulders tell you that he's Pope tonight.

You haven't seen Andrew for a while.

He says nothing. Just glares at you the same way he's been doing since you got to the club. At this point, you're used to the feeling of his eyes on you. It's comforting, even. But you prefer it up close, when you can distinguish the specks of green from the swirls of gold in his irises.

Without a word, you head for the door and slip out onto the quiet street. The music behind you gets quieter with every step, punctuated only by the echo of your heels. It must be after midnight, given how dead the surrounding area is. You wouldn't know. You let your phone die hours ago.

Goosebumps rise on your bare arms from the ocean breeze. The weight of his jacket settles over you and you greedily inhale his scent from it, absorbing his warmth. When it's late and you're drunk, you can almost pretend you're still together. Can almost convince yourself that he follows you because he still loves you and not just because he feels guilty.

He doesn't walk beside you. He never does, opting to trail a few feet away as he follows you. Either way, no one fucks with you the whole walk home. You don't need to worry when he's around. He's made sure of it.

When you get to your front door, you hand him his jacket and fumble with the keys in your hand.

"Want to come in?" You always offer. Maybe one day he'll be weak enough to accept.

"You can't keep doing this," he grits out, jaw tense. Sharp enough to cut glass.

"Doing what?" You ask with the doe eyes you know he can't resist. He roughly exhales and looks away. "See you tomorrow. Pope."

He flinches at the use of his nickname but stays on your front porch until he hears the deadbolt click. A cigarette between his teeth, he stands under the moon and wonders how much longer you'll torture him like this. He hates himself for knowing he'd let you forever.

[writing-my-inside-thoughts]

Save Me

Synopsis: Pope saves you from a sketchy situation.

Characters: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader, no use of y/n

Word count: 1525

"That's bullshit!" Craig shouts from his corner of the bar.

Baz looks unimpressed. "I call it like I see it."

They've been arguing about the logistics of the next job for thirty minutes now. When Craig had called this meeting, he'd only mentally planned on being here for fifteen. Tops.

Pope looks over at Deran to see if he has a plan to move this shit along, but he continues deflecting by wiping down glasses. Figures.

"I'm telling you, man, I can get us in!" Craig slams a hand down on the bar top, glasses scattering from the force.

"How? By trying to hook up with the receptionist?" Baz scoffs. "That's a weak plan at best."

"God, you always do this-"

Pope huffs and picks at a lifting cuticle on his thumb. Same shit, different day. He'd plan something if he could trust any of his brothers to listen to him. But ever since Folsom, he's been outsourced as the muscle. He does the dirty work. He doesn't think.

"Pope's in, right, man?" Craig abruptly questions. Baz pins him with a look, all but challenging him to say yes. Deran leans back against the wall.

Pope shrugs and opens his mouth. Before he can answer, his phone vibrates in his pocket and he pulls it out to see if it's you.

"I've got to take this."

He ignores their jeers and protests from behind his back as he pushes outside. Jesus. He's been in there so long with them, it's night now.

"Hey baby," he murmurs, pressing the speaker close to his ear.

"Andrew."

He stills, dread sinking into his stomach. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing."

But it's not nothing, because your voice is shaking.

"Tell me."

Every second that goes by, his pulse beats louder in his ears.

"I was craving those gummy worms that you know I like, so I decided to take a dusk walk to the convenience store by my apartment. You know, the one on the corner by the post office?"

He hums in agreement, so you continue.

"Well, it was such a beautiful night so I decided to smoke a j on the way... and I think I'm being followed."

He growls into the phone, fishing his keys out of his pocket and practically stomping to his car. He doesn't even consider telling his brothers where he's going. They'll figure it out without him.

"Where are you?"

"Maybe I'm wrong! Maybe the weed is making me paranoid and-"

"Where are you now?" he asks sharply again, cutting you off. He'll be the one to decide if you were wrong.

"I'm still here. It's dark and I'm scared to leave..." Your voice drops to a whisper. "But oh god, he's in here too. It's been like fifteen minutes but he hasn't left. He might be waiting for me."

"Do not go anywhere. Stay on the phone with me. I'll be there in five minutes."

It was at least a fifteen minute drive, but damn it, he'd make it in five.

"Fuck, Andrew. I'm so high. Why am I so high? I should've known-"

"You haven't done anything wrong." His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel, engine screaming from how hard he's pushing it. "You should've called me fifteen minutes ago though."

"I'm sorry," you choke out and he immediately feels bad for scolding you. "I thought I was being dumb."

"You're never being dumb. Never. I will always come get you. I don't give a shit if it's three A.M."

"I know you will," you whisper.

"Is he still there?"

The silence on the other end feels suffocating. He calls out your name again and checks to make sure the call didn't drop.

"Sorry, he was walking right by me. I had to wait until he passed."

Pope's mind flashes through all the possible weapons he has in his car. He's not worried the guy will fight him-- no, he just wants to make him pay for scaring the shit out of you. The pistol under his driver's seat. The knife in the glovebox. His fists.

"I'm almost there, baby. Two minutes."

His tires skid as he takes a turn particularly hard. His eyes flash in the rearview mirror to make sure no cops are around. The last thing he needs is to be pulled over.

Finally, the familiar building comes into view. It looks totally different at night than it does during the day. Lively streets have been traded for a ghost town with all kinds of sketchy people wandering through the surrounding alleys. He never would've let you walk here.

He hardly slows when he throws the car in park, opting to leave his truck diagonal in the middle of the lot. The bell of the door rings when he bursts in and the cashier looks over with wide eyes. Her shoulders are tense too, like she's picked up on the bad energy from your stalker, but her face carries a mixture of relief and fear at Pope walking through.

"Come on," he addresses you, gripping your shoulders to look you over and ensure you're not hurt.

Your hand is still wrapped around the candy you came for, although he notices the slight tremble in them. He pushes whatever cash he has in his pocket toward the register, but doesn't even wait for her to scan them before steering you outside. He opens the passenger door and helps you in, buckling your seatbelt for you.

When he enters the driver's side, his anger is renewed when he sees how pale you look and the way you have a hand clutched over your chest. He weaves his fingers through yours and gently squeezes.

"I will never let anything happen to you. You're okay. I've got you."

You nod, exhaling a shaky breath before it hitches in your throat.

"That's him."

Pope's jaw tenses, molars grinding on bone, as he watches the man drop all of the snacks he'd picked up on the counter and walk out without paying. Not taking a single, goddamned thing.

"He was walking around, picking out stuff like he wanted it..." You squeak, looking over at him with wide eyes.

He's heard enough. He turns on the engine and pulls out. Part of him wants to offer to go beat the shit out of him for you, but he knows you'll decline. The most important thing is getting you safe and home.

When you're back at your apartment, you curl into Pope's side and breathe in the soft aftershave in his neck. Your arms curl around his neck, like you're trying to meld you both into one person. His hand gently rubs your back.

"What happened?" he quietly asks, not wanting to startle you.

You sigh. "I was having a good time, enjoying my walk when I got this weird feeling. I kinda looked behind me and that guy was trailing me, but I figured we were both headed the same direction."

You look down, fidgeting with your fingers.

"But he kept getting closer. By then, I started noticing how dark it was getting and how no one was around. I couldn't turn around to go home, or he'd know where I lived."

He brushes a tear away from your cheek before it can fall. You hadn't even noticed you were crying.

"Sorry," you breathe, still feeling amped up on lingering adrenaline. "I was just so scared. I've never felt so much like prey in my life. It was like every cell in my body screaming at me to run."

"That's good," he coos, framing your cheeks in his hands. "You picked up that something was wrong. But please call me sooner next time," he begs, sounding more wrecked than you've ever heard him.

He's spent the better part of the hour trying not to imagine all of the scenarios where he doesn't get to you in time. Where you don't notice you're being followed and walk back home in the dark.

You run a soothing hand through his curls, pressing a kiss to his forehead and then his cheek. He tilts his face up to softly brush his lips on yours.

"I will. Promise." You crack a small smile, almost as if you know you've terrified him tonight and want to break the tension. "But at least I got my gummy worms."

"Jesus Christ," he groans, pushing his face into your shoulder. "I'm gonna buy you fifty pounds of gummy worms so you never go anywhere."

And after ordering your favorite Thai takeout and watching movies together, when you finally knock out with that serene smile gracing your mouth, he slips out your front door. He meticulously scans dimly lit streets until he spots a familiar piece of shit.

And when his knuckles make contact with his jaw, stomach, cheekbone-- he knows he won't stop. Maybe can't stop.

But that's why the desert is his favorite place. Too much sand to ever search. And when he sneaks back into your room, before dawn with your favorite donuts in hand, you're none the wiser. Still perfect and whole and his.

Just getting back into writing-- would love any feedback! Thanks for reading :)