I Dont Hunt Rabbits With A Cannon

You'd gotten caught.

Before you knew it, gunshots had flown around the swanky hall while Baz and Craig were supposed to be cracking a safe down the hall. The scene scrambled into chaos and your ears were ringing all of a sudden and pain pierced along your shoulder and then Pope was on top of you, ushering you to safety, hoisting you over his shoulder, hauling you to his truck, getting you home, keeping you safe. He'd abandoned his brothers as dark protectiveness demanded he protect you. The truck sped way too fast back to Oceanside, running reds and ignoring honks while Pope kept his left hand on your shoulder, pressing down a cloth you hadn't noticed him grabbing. You're too dazed from the intensity of the bullets that flew by you.

By the time Pope's got you sitting on his bathroom counter, inspecting and tending to the relatively superficial wound, your head stops spinning and the world slows back down. Sipping on a water you hadn't registered Pope putting on the counter for you to drink, you ask, "What the hell happened?"

"Security realized we were there. One of Craig's dumbass friends went running instead of staying calm" he shakes his head and sighs. "And you scared the shit out of me. Never seen you drop like that," Pope mutters under his breath as he gets out the suture kit and starts disinfecting. You cry out when the antiseptic stings but quickly shut your mouth. You've had worse, but the pain of alcohol on exposed flesh will never stop surprising you. "This is gonna hurt. It should only be a handful of stitches, alright?"

You nod and grit your teeth as he starts the stitches.

To distract you from the pain, he keeps talking, "Baz texted. They still managed to get some cash out. Only a few thousand for each of us, but still. Nobody's dead and we're in the black. Could've been worse."

You let out a sharp, harsh laugh. "Yeah, the bullet could've been a few inches to the right."

"Don't joke about that."

"C'mon, we get hurt all the time.

"Not you." He cases off the last stitch and examines his work. "Not when I'm supposed to be the one protecting you."

"I can handle myself."

"I know that." His eyes flick up to yours and there's a familiar, charged heat in them. "I also know I don't want you to have to."

It hangs thick in the air. Pope doesn't express his feeling often and saying something so simple and true feels like a romantic drama level love confession. You take his hand in yours and press, "What are you saying?" When he doesn't respond, you tug him close and whisper, "Kiss me, Pope."

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Alright, asshole, we aren't playing pretend anymore."

You turn his face forward by his jaw and drop your voice to a tentative, earnest whisper. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

His eyes slam into yours. He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side. A puppy looking at its first ever toy after being rescued from the shelter. "Really?"

You wind the fingers of your pain-free hand in the hair at the base of his neck and pull him toward you. He steps between your knees, your hips slotting together at the countertop's height. His eyes drop to your lips and you can feel the 'please' about to crest over them.