Chapter Text
Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.
He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.
With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.
That's how they'd met you, too.
You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.
But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.
Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.
"Hey—"
He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.
He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.
"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."
Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.
Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”
Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.
"Go away." Pope said simply.
"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.
Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.
First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.
The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.
"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.
One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.
"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.
Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.
Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.
Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.
But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.
A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.
You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.
At Pope.
And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.
Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.
"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.
“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.
Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.
It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.
You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.
You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.
His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.
Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?
"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.
Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.
Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.
But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.
Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.
You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.
"Thanks," you said.
Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.
He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."
Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.
He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.
"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."
You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.
"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.
When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"
Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.
So, he let go.
You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.
“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”
Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"
You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."
Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.
"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.
But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.
Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”
"Do you?" Craig asked.
Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.
He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.
“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”
Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.
And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.
Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”
"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.
But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.
When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.
Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”
You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.
"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.
Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.
"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.
Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.
He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.
You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."
Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.
And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.
A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.
And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.
"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"
He nodded.
You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."
You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?
"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"
The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.
What Craig had said… What had his brother said?
I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.
“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”
You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.
"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.
“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”
“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.
Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”
You leaned closer.
Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.
"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.
You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—
But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.
And then you turned into him, and kissed him.
You tasted like aspartame.
That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.
When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.
His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.
It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.
“Holy shit.”
The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.
And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.
He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.
You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.
“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.
Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”
And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.
Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.
“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”
Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.