ALSO Permission is not granted for any of my fanworks to be adapted, copied, or used for any purpose, including podfics, translations, or art, without permission.

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED (My inbox is full and I'm still procrastinating)

RULES FOR REQUESTS!!!

No super specific request (you telling me the entire story you want play by play- I'll just be retyping what you've already written and there is no creativity or fun in that for me or you.)

I don't do sister of, daughter of, best friend of- for characters. I know some people love it but I personally don't.

Only request people I write for.

Currently writing for:

SVU: Joe Velasco, Sonny Carisi, Nick Amaro

NCIS: Nick Torres

Chicago Med: Will Halstead, Crockett Marcel, & Connor Rhodes

Chicago PD: Antonio Dawson & Jay Halstead

The Walking Dead: Rick Grimes

911: Evan Buckley

FBI International: Wes Mitchell

Teen Wolf: Derek Hale, (Stalia)

Masterlist

Law & Order SVU

NCIS

Chicago Med

Chicago PD

The Walking Dead

911

FBI International

Teen Wolf

Shameless

The Pitt

Sonny Carisi Enough

July has not been a month for the weak. This came to me and had to be written. I hope you guys enjoy my first Sonny fic in wayyy too long. Thank you @polkadotpenguin16 for being an amazing human and a better friend.

Sonny could sense something was wrong with you immediately. It didn’t take a genius to realize, anyone who cared enough to notice would. You were a messy person- not dirty- just sprawled everywhere. It was something that had taken Sonny some time to get used to, but for the most part it didn’t bother him anymore. So, it had taken him off guard a little to find that you were an emotional cleaner. And not just a straighten-up emotional cleaner. No, you were moving all the furniture and scrubbing every inch of a room kind of emotional cleaner.

And right now you were on your knees scrubbing the divots of the kitchen floor tiles. You didn’t even look up when he entered the room. Sonny made the informed choice to take both his socks and shoes off and stay on the far side of the island to gain your attention. The one time he had stepped on your wet floor when you were like this was more than enough to keep him from doing it again.

He took a moment to get a rough guess of how concerned he should be. Just from looking at you, it didn’t seem too bad. The harsh scrubbing made him think that you were probably angry. A rough day at work. Or maybe you were mad at him. This was the third night in a row he had come home over an hour late. You had become pretty good at letting him know when you felt like work was consuming the time that your relationship needed and deserved.

“Baby?” You stop scrubbing but refuse to look at him. Sonny lets the silence hang in the air for a minute before trying again. The likelihood of it being him was increasing by each breath that left his lungs. He tried again. “Rough day, sweetheart?” You just sigh, tapping your fingers absentmindedly against the tile before finally looking up at him. Your eyes were rimmed in red, and while you were not currently crying, Sonny had no doubt it had been recently. Your cheeks were still tear-stained.

Sonny didn’t hesitate to close the space between you, crouching down. He cupped your cheek, pushing back the locks of hair that had escaped your messy bun and were dried to your cheeks. “What happened?” His voice was concerned but firm in its expectation of an answer.   

“Why is nothing I ever do good enough?” The words floored Sonny. It cut through his chest like shrapnel. A scalding mix of emotions warring for dominance. He was completely heartbroken for you, but also a level of pissed off that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t stupid, he knew where these thoughts were coming from. Sonny carefully grabs you, pulling you up to your feet. You don’t resist. 

“It is- you are.” Your eyes are still downcast, and  Sonny bends, trying to get into your line of sight while putting gentle pressure on your jaw, urging you to raise your head.  Hey, hey, hey, look at me.” Moisture burns your eyes as you meet his gaze. “You are. I love you. You do so much, love so hard, give all of yourself to everyone and everything you do. And I love you for it. And I also hate it. Hate that it makes you feel this way.” Tears roll down your cheeks, and you don’t manage to catch the sob as it burns through your chest. 

Loud and ugly.

Not So Routine Visits

Masterlist

Tuesday, February 3rd

You stand and frown when you see Duke heading towards your table. He looks battered with his two healing black eyes, and you give him a brief hug before he sits down. It was part of the limited contact you were allowed. And it seemed that the guards were more focused on you after the absence of visits, so you didn’t linger. It had been a month since you had seen him. His visitation privileges were revoked.

It was your fault.

You were the one who had asked him about looking into the videos. See how much truth was in them and how much people knew. You had limited information to go on. Didn’t even know if they were as big a deal as you had originally thought they were. The way Rick had reacted though-it seemed like there was something bigger behind it. 

Duke’s searching, however, had started something between Duke’s group and another somehow- you hadn’t been informed of what actually caused the fight but Duke, Dom, and Tracey had lost privileges. “Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart, this had nothing to do with you.” or what you asked for.

“I just worry about you in here.” I hated having to ask you to do this when I don’t know what we are even really looking for.

“Prison is a dangerous place, that hasn’t changed.” I didn’t find out anything useful yet.

“Strangely, that doesn’t make me feel any better. I just want you to be safe.” Stop looking into this if it's a risk to your safety.

“I know how to handle myself, Chikadee.” I’m not done yet. I’ll only stop on my terms.

You held eye contact with him, trying not to focus on the healing yellow bruises. You try to argue but are cut off. “How is the family?” This conversation is over.

You close your eye but relent. There had been a lot of family drama over the last few weeks. More than enough to hold Duke’s attention until the next visit.   

When Andrew comes in an hour later, he is in one of his quieter moods, almost melancholy. Whenever he visited, his mood could usually be sorted into one of three categories- distant and detached, critical and harsh, or analytical and probing. The last being when you actually had conversations of any real capacity. When he was in distant moods, you usually didn’t say much yourself. Because he hardly would respond, almost lost in his own world. Critical and harsh was… just not very fun. Luckily, it was also the most uncommon, only happening a handful of times, the first one being the most notable.

Andrew had been completely off all medication for just shy of four months. 

His need for medication- proper medication- was apparent. His moods were constantly cycling, and you never seemed to know what version of Andrew you would get from visit to visit. Duke had told you that the behaviors get worse when he doesn’t sleep for a few days. That his paranoia skyrockets along with his irritability. He seemed mostly in control, but Duke had shared growing concerns before his visitation was over. 

Sitting across from him, you could understand why. You ask him the normal questions when he is in moods like this. Typical check-in questions about how he was doing and if he had been having any trouble or unnecessary attention. His answers were short, usually one word if he could manage it. You feel uneasy when the order for a lineup is called. 

Saturday February 14th

It had a busy fucked up week to the point where you thought you might actually miss your weekly visit. You almost wish you had. It was an inconvenience to drive out to Folsom on the best day, and on the worst, a total pain in the ass. You hated coming on the weekends. Everyone visited then, which made wait times awful, and the guards always seemed to be in pissy moods.

You give Duke a reluctant smile as he sits down. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, you look like a spring chicken yourself.” Duke laughed. He looked better. Most of the bruising had healed up. “How’s the palace?”

“New guard. He’s green. A loner. Observant.” You hummed. It was always a 50/50 crapshoot when it came to new guards and how far they were willing to bend the rules and blur the lines. You thought a slow and steady foundation was the best way to go, but the others got antsy. Their minds are mostly on sneaking in contraband cigarettes, being a common favorite. It was the life sentencers, like Duke, who had a mind for an investment.

Pope tried not to fidget at the change in his schedule. It was an in-between time where people were never called for a visitation. Pope clenched his jaw, his hands flexing and relaxing. The guard had told him it was for visitation, but his mind screamed that he was being led back to solitary. He scoured his mind to think of what he could have done that would get him sent there. He couldn’t think of anything. Maybe it was you pulling the strings- he had just started to believe that- 

BUZZ!

Pope swallowed past the lump in his throat as he was ordered to turn around. His cuffs were released. His heart was beating rapidly, heat pulsing through his stomach and into his chest. He hid the tremble in his hands by fisting them tightly at his sides.

The visitation room.

It was packed with more people than normal, making him feel claustrophobic and oversensitive to the clashing of noises. And just to fuck with his head and set him even more on edge, you weren’t at the normal back table but off to the side. Duke was also sitting with you. He must have been standing there too long because the guard ordered him to sit down, or he would be taken back. He tried to calm himself as he walked over to you. He hesitated before sitting next to the older man. Logically, he knew that Duke was your uncle, but he had yet to see you interact with him.

Pope looked from Duke back to you. You were watching him with a strange expression on your face. One that he had never seen before, and he couldn’t place. “Hey, Andrew,” your voice even had a different tone to it. His brain struggled- a box was still not available to put you in, and it rubbed his mind raw. “I had a crazy week, and we had to do something a little different today. It’s a split visit. I usually do it with Duke and one of my cousins, but the schedule was too packed with other visitors because of the weekend to be able to do that and my half hour with you.” Pope's mind turned over your words, slow to process them. “So, Duke was here for about fifteen minutes before you came in, he will be here with us for about a half hour, and then he will leave, and we will have another fifteen minutes before you go back too.”

Pope’s mind latched onto the numbers with a desperation and strength that might scare someone else. But he knew numbers. These time limits made sense to him. He knew what was coming. Could plan according to it. There was control in it. It was different but not unmanageable. Slowly, over the next half hour, he felt his body start to relax. He didn’t add to the conversation, allowing you and Duke to do all of the talking. His fifteen minutes alone with you were spent answering your routine questions concisely and clinically.

Wednesday, February 18th

“So, what is your plan?” Pope glanced up at you at the question. It wasn’t one of your normal ones. You huffed at his blank stare. “To get yourself out of here.” Now that caught his attention as he leaned forward, staring hard at you. “Not like that.” Pope watched you roll your eyes and shake your head. You shift in your seat, pulling one leg up and tucking your foot underneath you. “You’re sentenced to six years. You’ve only got through one so far. You’re not really planning on just waiting and hoping for the best, are you?” 

Pope honestly hadn’t considered anything different. When he had gotten out of solitary, he had been relieved and tired. So fucking tired. Then his brain had started amping back up again. It took most of his mental focus to function in the prison’s daily living.

“You should take some classes that they offer here. Communication skills, anger management, reentry preparation, substance abuse and recov-”

“I don’t have a drug problem.” Pope practically growled. “None of that shit is going to matter on the outside.” Pope is confused when you nod your agreement as if it were obvious.

“Yeah, no shit. People are going to do what they do when they get out.” You say flatly, unbothered. “But they will help you get out. And right now, that is what you should care about. It looks good to a judge, and when you eventually get a parol hearing you want to have something to show you weren’t just jacking off while you were here.”

Pope’s fucked up mind uses that sentence to create a very vivid image in his mind of your dainty hand wrapped around his hard cock deliberately stroking the length. He hadn’t had anything near an erection since he had been locked up. At that visual, he felt his dick twitch. He locked it down quickly.

Where the hell had that come from?

Pope realized you were still talking.“Work on your GED or a job skill for when you get out. Both. They do plumbing, construction, welding-” You paused in your list of options. “They also do a short church service every Sunday. That might be something you’d be interested in-Pope?” Pope's jaw clenched, and his stomach tightened. Not at the thought of attending a church service. No, it was using his nickname. It sounded wrong. Felt wrong. 

Everyone else might, but you never called him Pope. 

You took his silence to mean something else and rolled your eyes. “You’re right, Andrew, a complete waste of time. It would be like being in prison.”

Pope felt his lips twitch.

Friday, February 27th

Pope’s knuckles were still aching when his handcuffs were released, and he walked towards your table. Your eyes zeroed in on them immediately, and before he could sit down asked. “Did you get into a fight?” Pope thought your tone sounded pretty pissed off, but… that wasn’t quite right. And your face held that same strange expression that it had at the split visit with Duke. 

“I punched a wall,” He holds his injured left hand up just above the table. All of his knuckles were busted open and bruised, but a particularly nasty shade of blue and purple spanned the length of his pinky.

Pope had done it to try to shock some sense of reality back into himself. He hadn’t slept in almost three days. Just sitting and staring at the dark cell walls as Donny snored. His emotions were high, and his head was scrambled. It was hard to keep track of his thoughts, mostly relying on his body to lead him. When the emotions you feel are anxiety and irritability, heightened by paranoia, it causes problems. The overwhelming dread and fear of being forced back into solitude was the only way he was able to get a grip on himself, but lately that hadn’t even been enough of a motivator. 

Pope flinched as the warmth of your hand unexpectedly wrapped around his. “Still hurts?” Your voice is soft and soothing. If it does, he can’t tell. He doesn’t correct your assumption, and he doesn’t understand why he didn’t immediately yank his hand away. Why he still hasn’t. Just letting you rotate his hand, eyes catching every shade and scrape. 

Maybe it is the gentleness of your touch. The warmth of your skin, the physical contact that he hasn’t had in over a year. It feels strange and off-putting, but not bad. A different kind of rush that reminds him of when he is doing a job. He reflexively scans the room for a potential threat. Some of the guards' eyes find their hands, but they don’t immediately demand that they separate. Pope had been under the impression that no touching was allowed in a visitation. He had never done it with anyone other than you. But it seemed that this was okay. So, he was willing to take it for as long as you were willing to give it. 

“You haven’t been sleeping.” It wasn’t a question. You were stating a fact. One that he did not need to confirm. Pope knew something was coming. He could feel it pulsing through his entire body. “I think you should talk to someone about taking something-”

Pope ripped his hand back from yours. The speed is pulling you slightly forward. A blinding heat scorched through his body, then hollowed into an icy numbness. 

There it was.

“You trying to drug me back up?” Pope’s voice was low and sharp. Accusing. You bink looking as taken off guard as he felt. He should have known better. His brain reeled as he tried to firmly slam you into the untrustworthy box. But everything be damned, you still didn’t fit right. The box wouldn’t close with you inside it.

“What? No, of course not. I just thought-” Your voice was high. Defensive. Manipulative-Pope’s mind supplied him. You were trying to force him into this. That must have been your goal from the start. You had played a good game. A long game. But here it was. This is what it came down to. 

“Thought I was crazy?” It’s what everyone thought.

“No!” You deny your eyebrow scrunched, jaw tight. Your voice is keying up a bit, but not enough to catch the guard's attention. At least not yet. “That’s not fair. You are putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m just saying what you won’t,” Pope said flatly. Nobody could stand him off his pills. Hell, his family could barely stand him on the pills. And he was the one who had to deal with the side effects. Some of which he found worse than his original problem. The brain fog that made his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton, making it so much harder to think, was his least favorite.  

“Hey! I don’t sugarcoat anything for anyone.” A fire burned in your eyes. It was familiar. You looked and sounded like you had during your first visit with him. Lying down your cards and expecting him to take them as fact. “Jesus, Andrew, you want to know what I think-what I’ve witnessed? Fine, I think that you are struggling. You are not sleeping. You’re barely eating, you're anxious and paranoid. At our last visit, you could barely stand the minor change in routine.” Then your voice softened, posture taking on a more relaxed state. “I don’t want you “drugged up”. I just think that taking something-something prescribed by a licensed psychiatrist- would help take the edge off. Just something to help with the paranoia and make it so you can sleep.”

“I can handle it.” Pope has been handling it for years. A constant on and off of medication is usually found by his mother. 

“Look at your hand, Andrew. You handled it so well that you punched a wall. It’s getting worse, and it will continue-” 

Pope’s entire body coiled. He flexed his hand involuntarily, feeling the pull of broken skin. He didn’t care because ultimately-“I’m not taking any pills.” 

“Fine, it’s your choice, and I will respect it. Even if it is a stupid fucking choice.”

Masterlist

The Jeep

It was strange going to a mechanic that you had never talked to before. Driving nearly two hours on a Friday morning on the word of a man who didn’t even like you. Yet here you were pulling into the very full parking lot of an average-sized garage. It wasn’t anything fancy. Not that it was what you were particularly looking for. The last shop you had gone to was popular and highly recommended, and they just couldn’t seem to fix the problem.

You had been taking it to a relative's garage, but they bitched and told you to scrap your Jeep and get a new car. Even had offered to put a down payment on it just to stop you from making them continue to fix it (didn’t want you to drive it unsafely). You had decided that you had heard enough of it and that you would not ask again. 

That had royally screwed you over.

You pause at the front of the open garage door. What are you doing? This place looks really busy. You definitely should have called first. Had you found a valid number, you would have. 

“Can I help you?” The man is young, mid to late-twenties, with dark, messy hair, dressed in a black shirt and stained jeans. 

“Uh, I hope so. Are you Jimmy?” At his nod, you gesture back to your car keys in hand. “I’m having trouble with my Jeep.” His dark eyes follow the movement silently. “You look busy-I tried to call your number, isn’t right online. I was sent here-Andrew Cody- he said  you could fix anything with an engine.” He just stared at you like he wasn’t quite understanding what you were saying. You felt stupid and started backing away. “Actually, never mind, you seem really busy, sorry to bother you.”

That whole process had felt like it had dragged on. It hadn’t, you had been talking fast, it had been hard for the man to keep up. A thing that happened when you felt awkward or stupid. Because, unfortunately, your self-confidence didn’t stretch to everything. You had taken three steps backwards and then turned to leave.

“You talking about Pope?”  He called after you. You pause, of course, that stupid nickname wasn’t just in the prison walls. You turn back. At least he actually knows him. Fuck, I hope they are on good terms.

“Uh, yeah?” Jimmy closed the distance between you and held out his hand, palm up. You obediently dropped the keys into his palm.

“I’ll take a look. Might take me a minute. I have to wrap up with the car I already got on the lift. There is a bar a couple of blocks over called The Crest if you want a drink while you wait. It's just across the road from the beach if you don’t want to wait here.” You stare blankly at him. He smiles, and it is warm, not a guy you would think would be running around with a man who was arrested for armed robbery. “Don’t worry, I got you. Here, just write your number down for me.” He pulls out a business card and flips it over, offering a pen from his pocket. You scribble down your number and then, as an afterthought, your name. He takes it and heads back to the garage with a I’ll call you when I’m done. You are a little disappointed when you see that he is wearing a wedding ring. 

Oh well.

With nothing else to do, you head to the bar. It wasn’t the worst you had ever been in, but it was cluttered with mermaids for some unknown reason but they poured their drinks strong. You had two before a group of rowdy men walked in. Not in the mood for that shit today you walked across the beach to sit and wait.

It was gorgeous out. Sunny with enough of a breeze to make the heat pleasant and not overwhelming. You walked down the beach with your feet in the water, and when you found a less populated area, you sat down. You couldn’t remember the last time you just took a minute to enjoy the present without the need to do or fix something. The sound of the water is soothing. 

When you got Jimmy’s call that he was done, you started your track back to the garage. He smiled when he saw you heading your way. He dropped the keys into your hand. “You're all set.”

“I’m sorry?” You say back dumbly.  

“You are good to go.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “Uh- could you not figure out the problem or…” 

“Nah, I found a few and fixed ‘em for ya. Should run good for you now. You're going to want to do some more maintenance. It’s old, and it’s going to need it. A good tune-up at the least. Didn’t have the time today, I have dinner plans with the Mrs. that I can’t be late for, but if you want to bring it back another day, I'll get it done for you. Drive safe now.” You could tell that it was his polite way of asking you to leave, but-

“I didn’t pay you.” You reminded him. What a strange thing to have to remind someone. Jimmy seemed completely unbothered as he twisted the lock on the garage door.  

“No payment needed. I owe Pope more than a few favors.”

“I don’t get it. How do you know Andrew? You don’t seem like the type to run with his crowd. I mean, you know he’s in prison, right?” A smile twitched at his lips, and then he frowned like he had conflicting emotions about the situation. 

“Yeah, I heard.” He shoved his keys in his pocket and returned his attention to you. “He helped me out a few years back. Almost lost this place. Gave me quite a loan to keep it open. I’ll be paying it back for the foreseeable future. I figure this-this is just an interest payment.”

You start to panic, a little, shaking your head. “No, wait- don’t do that. He sent me here because nobody else could fix it. Not to pay for it.”

“Sweetheart, if he sent you here, that’s exactly what he intended to do.” Jimmy patted your arm gently, nudging you back towards where he had parked your Jeep a few feet away. “Now, I won’t hear any more of it. I have to go. If you have any more problems or want that tune-up, just bring it on back.” You watched him go dumbfounded.

What the hell just happened?

  ⤔⤔⤔          

When Pope sat down for the next visitation on the following Wednesday, you were at your normal table at the back of the room. A smile on your lips. His ass had barely grazed the seat below him when you announce, “I think he fixed my Jeep- like fixed it-fixed it!” Your energy filled the space around him. The small favor that he had willing gave on an impulse had a much bigger impact than he had originally intended.

It was just an fucking car repair.

It's what he would have said had your smile not been so blinding, your joy infectious. It had been a hard few days for Pope. His paranoia and irritability had been particularly bad after not sleeping for two days. Your presence soothed that- not a lot- but enough to take the edge off. The consistency.

“It’s running better than it ever has.” And on and on you went. Pope was only half listening to what you were saying, but his eyes were piercing into your own. The change on your face told him that you were about to say something important. “He wouldn’t let me pay him. He said that he owed you. I tried but-”

“I don’t care.” Pope cut off your explanation. He knew Jimmy wouldn’t charge you anything, that he would chalk it up as a partial return on a favor. He wasn’t interested in that. What he was interested in, however, was, “Why is this Jeep so important?” You pursed your lips, head tilting to the side. “You keep fixing it. With the money you keep putting into it you could replace it, but you don’t. Why?” Pope wasn’t sure what he expected, but the simple one you gave wasn’t it.

“Because it’s mine.”

It wasn’t the whole story. There was more there, more meaning in the words and what they stood for. But for Pope, this was something he understood.

Taglist

Masterlist

A New Old Normal

Pope’s life in prison didn’t get easier, but it did get better as time passed. He slept most of the week, to the point where his body got sore and muscles stiff because of a lack of movement. It seemed now that he had gotten the chance to sleep, it was all his body would let him have. The next few weeks were rough. The abrupt change in circumstance didn’t feel real.

He was on guard constantly, paranoid. Waiting for the event. The one that would cash and take all of it back down like dominoes.

But there wasn’t.

Pope was no longer singled out by guards. Nobody was pushing pills into his mouth or shooting him up with sedatives every time he moved in a way they didn’t like. No, now the guards were watchful. Avoidant at times, almost. Like they were the ones who were trying not to stir up unnecessary trouble. Even Hilty, his favorite tormentor. The man who had a way of coming up with creative punishments. He had backed off. Not to the extent of the others. He was still clearly looking for a reason for Pope to get in trouble, but no longer creating one.

He was back to being part of the masses.

But, no, that wasn’t really true either. His bunkmate, who seemed less than thrilled to have Pope in his cell, was civil to him. Didn’t comment on some of the OCD tendencies that he had, though he had given him a rather distasteful look when he had come in to see Pope correcting the sheets on his bed, pulling them tight. The only response he got was, “Don’t touch the shit under my mattress.”

Pope had then given him a similar look, “Why the fuck would I want anything under your mattress?” It could have started a fight. Probably would have with anyone else. But Dom was begrudgingly patient and often ended situations with a raised hand and a sarcastic comment under his breath.

And it wasn’t even just that. A group of guys was more civil to him than anyone on his previous block. Pope tried to engage with as few people as possible, but it seemed all of a sudden, he had people watching his back, which had set off his paranoia and skepticism like flashing lights and blaring alarms. 

Duke was a solidly built man with a white beard and mustache. He was clearly in charge. He was the one who had told Pope they were all related in some way or another. That they were all related to you. Duke seemed to have shared the information to be comforting. 

It wasn’t.

You had, in days, successfully taken over every aspect of his life in prison. You had taken the power away from the prison, but now you held it yourself. The guards. The block. His cellmate. You. A person he didn’t know. A person he didn’t trust.

So, Pope waited. And he prepared himself for when you would make your move. Say what you wanted. Demanded the favor you thought he owed you. One he never offered you. Then, when he was unable or unwilling to do it, you could dish out your consequences. The thought of things going back to the way they were- back to solitary, back to Hilty- made him sick to his stomach to the point where it was almost debilitating. But it had been nearly three months (And a year into his six-year sentence), and still nothing.

Nothing.

You showed up once a week like clockwork- you never missed. The days were always random. Pope assumed you did it on purpose. To keep him guessing. But he had heard Duke and Don talking about how wild and busy your schedule could be. They, too, it seemed, never knew when you were coming. Just that you would be there.

And every week you came for a visit with him, too. Thirty minutes. He would sit, usually completely in silence, answering questions with one-word responses, usually about his well-being. Sometimes you would chatter. Making up for the fact that he was mostly silent. Other times, you seemed almost bored by the entire thing, staying mostly quiet yourself. 

“Pope, visitation.” He got up from his bunk, got cuffed, and was led to the visitation room.

You were sitting near the back like you always did. By the time his cuffs were off, Pope already knew that something was different today. This is it. You were finally about to show your hand. Pope's body coiled, muscles tight, jaw clenched, his body flooding with adrenaline. Ready for a fight.

It was anticlimactic.

Pope sat down, and you barely glanced up, a half nod the only acknowledgement you gave him. Then half the visit was over. You weren’t just being quiet-you were completely silent. You hadn’t said a damn word since he had walked in. And for some unfathomable reason-

It was bothering him.

He shifted in his chair to pull your interest from the window that you were staring out of. You glance over at him, then back to the window. “What is wrong with you today?” His voice was deep and gruff, and you finally graced him with most of your attention.

“I just don’t feel like rambling while you ignore me today. I thought that would be your preference too.” You then sit up a little straighter and look him over. Your eyes cover every inch of him. “Did something happen?” Pope could see the spark come back to your eyes, igniting the need to, as you put it, “meddle.” 

“No,” He didn’t mean it to be so short and harsh. Pope watched as you lost interest, gaze falling back to the window. “Duke lost visitation privileges,” Pope wasn’t sure what had gotten the older man in trouble, just that he had lost quite a few things. You looked back at him as if to say- I know, what is your point? “I didn’t think you would come.” 

Your eyes flickered around the room at the guards monitoring the visitation. “Didn’t want anyone falling back into old bad habits.” 

Pope leans further back in his chair. He just doesn’t know what to make of you. His brain has recovered from all the forced medications, but now he is back to his normal problems when he was unmedicated. Anxiety, paranoia, insomnia, and bursts of rage that he was struggling to control-the thought of going back to solitary was enough to keep it mostly in check. Not pleasant but familiar. 

His normal.

Pope did his best to place people in boxes while his mind was clear. Who went in the trust box, the dangerous box, the family box, the box where he held power, and the box where he didn’t. The Smurf box. It was all boxes, lined up in neat, even rows. Then, when his mind was overrun with paranoia and anger, he would think about what box that person was in to regulate, to the best of his ability, his reaction.

You didn’t fit into one box. 

Pope forced himself to put all of those emotions he was feeling in their battered and ripped box- one badly in need of repair- or better yet, a replacement. He sealed the lid firmly as he looked at you again. Purely analytically.

Your hair was yanked into an uneven bun, more than a few strands escaping the hair tie (a rush or exhaustion?), your eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched (frustration or stress?), your posture was slumped, leaning into yourself (fatigue or pain?), your fingers stained black were tapping lightly on the table (anxiety or boredom?), your-wait. Andrew looked back at your hands. When he had asked what you had wanted- 

I want my mechanic to actually fix what’s wrong with my Jeep and not have to keep bringing it back every other week for the same problem.

“Are you having problems with your Jeep still?” His voice was even, neutral. Your eyes shot back to his in surprise. “You have grease on your hands.” You look down at your hand like you don’t believe him, like you hadn’t already known it would be there.

“You remember that, huh?” You were actually listening when I was talking.

Pope had been waiting three months for you to demand something from him. You had got him out of solitary, got rid of the constant forced medication, the guards to lay off, a decent cellmate, and on a block where he wasn’t being targeted by other prisoners. Based on just the information he currently had, analytically, it made sense for him to give something back.

“206 S. Weston Ave in Oceanside.”

Your head tilts, and your eyebrows furrow more. “I’m sorry?”

“206 S. Weston Ave in Oceanside. It will be a bit of a drive, but the guy who owns the place, Jimmy, he can fix anything with an engine. Tell him I sent you.” Before you could say anything, the visit had come to an end, and the guards were calling for lineup. Pope got to his feet and headed to the door to be cuffed. 

Taglist

Here's the next part. My procrastination from doing my schoolwork is at least paying off in one way. And no, you are not crazy, I changed the uncle's name to Duke for clarity's sake.

***I do not have much knowledge of the justice system. This will NOT be accurate. I’ve only done a few Google searches to make my creative brain happy. This is done for entertainment and the enjoyment factor.***

Masterlist

Everyone Wants Something

“Next time you are picking up strays, Chickadee, make sure you check in before you make them our problem. Moving Pope in like that was a dick move. Like you expect us to be at your every beck and call.” Your cousin Domanic was in a really pissy mood today. He had been bitching and complaining since he had sat down for his visitation, and you were about over it. This though? 

This he had a point.

“Is he causing trouble?” Already? It had only been four days. Dom scoffed but didn’t answer. It made your stomach tie into knots. You heard the loud buzz and looked up to see them leading your uncle Duke in.

It had been a bitch fighting for split visits, let alone family ones. A lot of nights looking things up. You had still been young and not yet very confident in your abilities to advocate. It had been a big yet terrifying win. Because of the mass amount of family members who were in lockup (you swore that your family didn’t understand what a condom was, let alone how to use it), it felt like you were related to half the county-and not the good half. It was easier to come on light days and do a few visits. The most common being starting with person A, then fifteen minutes in, person B joined. They both stayed for roughly twenty minutes, and then you got the rest of the hour with person B.

They uncuffed Duke, and he made his way to the table. “You didn’t answer my question, Dom. Is he causing trouble?”

Duke eyed the two of you as he eased into his seat. Dom stayed silent. It took three seconds or less for Duke to figure out the tension in the air. “Ah, fuck Dom, are you still bitching about Pope being your new bunkmate?” Dom glared at Duke, who held eye contact with him with a steady stare until Dom broke, looking down at the table. “You make him sound like such a fucking problem when he slept for the first two days, and half the third. He’s barely made a sound since he was reassigned.” You felt immediate relief flood through your body. Not only had Andrew not been stirring up any problems, but he had actually slept. That man looked rough when you saw him. “She made a decision, and we back family-”

“Yeah, well, she is real good at making decisions for the family. Knows just how to pull those strings, don’t you, Chickadee?” Your stomach dropped as you pulled your arms off the table where they had been resting to sit up straight. 

“That’s enough.” Duke's voice was low and deadly. The conversation was over. Dom didn’t say anything back but rose to his feet, ending his part of the visit early. 

Which was totally fine.

“Asshole,” You muttered to yourself. Letting it hang in the air.

“Try to cut him some slack.” You gave Duke a disbelieving look. The man smiled, then it dropped, “Angela came and saw him today. She is pregnant.”

“Yeah, and that’s my fault? Maybe he needs another lesson on how to put on a-” You start angrily and then trail off a frown pulling at your own lips. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” Duke said simply.

“Oh fuck, for real?” You were mad at yourself for not realizing it immediately. Don had been in for almost six months now. If Angela had just found out that she was pregnant, it wasn’t Donny’s.

“And he is under the impression that you knew and didn’t tell him.” You sigh and roll your eyes. Crossing your arms over your chest, lips pursed. 

“You know, despite what everyone seems to think, I don’t know everything that is going on in this family. Honestly, I try to actively not see them in more than small controlled burst when I can get away with it. Which isn’t often because someone always fucking finds me and I end up getting stuck in their bullshit.” 

Duke smiles. It’s wistful, “Sounds like family.” You feel bad, eyes glancing down at the table. Duke made it a point to try to know everything that was going on. He was social, and he knew the family. The family knew him. The family talked to him- you had never realized how much it was just for favors until he got locked up, and they had all disappeared. You wonder if he had known or if it was a harsh wake-up call.

You didn’t like seeing that look on his face and started talking to him about what you had learned about the family. It wasn’t much this week. But Bobbi, a girl you still weren’t sure how you were related to, had just had a baby, and that was enough of a distraction for Duke. You glanced up at the clock. Only a few minutes left.

“You can ask.”

“Ask what?” Duke leaned his crossed arms on the table, raising an eyebrow at you. Busted. “Andrew, how is he really doing?”

“Hmm,” Duke tilted his head from side to side, “He was in a bad way when they brought him in.”

“Do you think he is going to cause problems?”

“Hard to tell. We will know soon, when he is back on his feet.” Duke’s tone made it clear that he was serious, maybe a bit disappointed, but not angry when he continued. “You really should have said something before you got him moved into our block. Donny was right about that. It was fucked up. Inconsiderate of the consequences.”

“It was an impulsive thing. I didn’t think about it before I went into Rick’s office.”

“He isn’t like one of your young buck strays that you try to get on the straight and narrow while they're here. He’s a grown man with a record. I saw what he did to that guard. Bloody mess. He is dangerous.”

“Aren’t we all.” Duke’s lips twitched at that. You look down at the table, tapping your fingers. “I couldn’t stomach it. I have to be able to sleep with myself at night.” You could still feel his stare on you. Heavy. Worried. “I’ll be careful.”

  ⤔⤔⤔ 

 You had a half-hour wait between seeing Duke and Andrew. Time to brace yourself for what might happen at the visit. You were sitting at the table, looking out the window at the men playing basketball, when the screeching buzz went off. You looked up like you always did.

A few men filtered in. He was the last. You watched the guard take off his cuffs. When Andrew’s eyes locked on you from across the room, they were piercing. Like he could see right through you. His long strides closed the distance between you quickly.

He looked better. Like he could think straight for the first time in a while. His face was still a mess of nasty bruises in various states of healing. He looked freshly showered, and you knew it was for your benefit, not out of respect for his rights.

He sat down across from you, and you felt like you were in a battle of wills, and you didn’t know what you were fighting for. The silence stretched a minute too long to be comfortable.

“I don’t know you.” His voice sounded different from what you expected. You weren’t sure in what way. Maybe it was the flat, unimpressed tone. 

“Sure you do, you dated my cousin’s best friend for a while. We ran in the same circle. I’m flattered I made such an impact on you.” You glance up at the guards who were monitoring. You recognized the man who seemed overinterested in your table. You lean slightly forward and lower your voice. “I’m also the one who got you out of solitary.” You discreetly nodded to the guard standing behind him. He didn’t turn, but he got the hint. “You look like you’re doing better. Last time I saw you, you were pretty out of it.”

“What do you want?” You blink. Straight to the point, then. Blunt. You could respect that.

His hazel eyes were analyzing your every move. The weight of his stare was enough for anyone to take notice, but it looked even more intimidating with his still-healing black eye, gash on his eyebrow held together by two butterfly stitches, and bruised chin. But you kept eye contact. You were used to piercing stares. Duke was known for them. His intensity behind them was different, though. ”I don’t want anything.” 

“Everybody wants something.” He said it like it was law as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. You didn’t think arguing was quite the way to go with this one. He looked as stubborn as a mule. Play the game then. 

“Okay, fine. You win. Hmm, let's see.” You press your lips together in thought, rocking slightly back and forth. “I want my supervisor at my work to stop telling me how to do my job when he doesn’t know how to do it- and a pay raise to go along with it.  I want my mechanic to actually fix what’s wrong with my Jeep and not have to keep bringing it back every other week for the same problem.” You sigh in frustration because that was being less of a hassle now and more of a full-blown problem. 

“I want to take a vacation. Maybe to Hawaii or Cuba. I want my family not to have someone go into prison every time someone else gets out, like a fucked up, never-ending game of musical chairs. I would love to have a guy who, when we had sex, cared half as much about getting me off as he worried about himself. I want the new season of The Pitt to come out right now so I can watch it. And I want them to put my two favorite couples together. Oh, and I wouldn’t mind a big piece of chocolate cake with extra frosting. I have an insane sugar craving right now.”

Andrew was silent. Just staring at you. Didn’t move a muscle. Not even a twitch of his lips. Tough crowd. 

“What do you want from me?” You tried not to take his abrasiveness too personally. God, he is stand-offish. You hadn’t done it for a thank you, but he could lay off a bit.   

“I want to keep you out of solitary for the rest of your five-year sentence. You think you could help me make it happen?” It came out a little sharper than you had intended. A rise in your tone as the sarcasm had started to oze out. His eyes narrow, a stark line appearing between his eyebrows. 

“Why?”

“Well, from what I hear, it’s compared to psychological torture. So, I thought you might want to avoid that.” You glance up at the clock. Time was going by quickly, half the visit was already almost over.

“No,” He didn’t seem to like your answers. Not in an angry way, but almost confused. Like he couldn’t quite understand you, and it bothered him. “Why do you want to help me? I don’t even know you.”

“Sure you do.” You correct eyes glance back to Hilty, who thankfully looks distracted by a couple across the room who are not taking the policy about physical touch seriously enough. They were definitely going to get in trouble for that.

Andrew sat up and leaned forward in his chair. The first real spark in his demeanor. “Is this Smurf? Did she send you here?” You couldn’t tell if his tone was angry or hopeful. Maybe a mix of both.

 You knew that he had a mother and three brothers who had left him high and dry, but did he have a girlfriend who had done the same? A girl like Angela, who said she would stay faithful, started screwing around after a few lonely months? Or had she ripped it off like a Band-Aid and broken up with him after he had been put in prison? Still a shitty thing to do, but less so, in an honest way. “Who’s Smurf?” Your look of general confusion must have been enough of an answer. His jaw clenched, tension scrunched his face, and his muscles contracted coiled like a cobra ready to strike.

“Then why?” You took the redirection in stride, following him away from an obviously personal and painful subject.

“I saw you walking past the visitation room when I was here last Wednesday. Thought I could help.” You said simply. Honestly.

“Out of pity, then.” Your eyes narrow at him as you sit up a little straighter at the accusation.  

“I don’t do pity. You got yourself locked up in here.” You say harshly, then pause. “But I do have empathy, and you looked like you were in need of some. There is a line between paying for your misdoings and…” 

And the torture you were clearly facing.

He is still suspicious. Like, he doesn’t believe anyone would do something for nothing. You glance at the clock. You had only scheduled a half-hour visit. You had been unsure about how he would be doing. You had about five minutes left. So you gave him something that his brain might be able to understand and reason with. Connect to the reality he knows. You had seen it a lot in the younger guys- the “strays”- you had helped.

“I’m a meddler. I like to fix things-even when they are not necessarily broken. My brain constantly needs something to do-to focus on. And I like to argue.” You couldn’t help the smile that came to your lips. “I mean, I really, really like to argue. And I’m good at it. I needed something to focus on and argue with Rick about. It’s been a while.”

A last-minute warning was called out to the room.

Andrew doesn’t look like he trusts you any more than when he walked in the door and sat down. In fact, he looked like he was even more unsure about you. His penetrating stare was almost unnerving in its intensity.

“If you really need to do something for me, how about this- stay out of trouble. For both of our sakes. I’m good, but I don’t know if even I could smooth over a problem that took place less than a week after you were released from solitary. Sound fair?”

An order to line up was called out, and inmates stood up to get cuffed and taken back to their blocks. Andrew didn’t move for a moment. Just staring. At you.

“Now, Pope!” Then he was on his feet and walking to the guard, wordlessly turning so his hands could be cuffed behind his back. Then he was back through the door and down the hallway without a single look back.

That went well.     

Taglist

Holy crap, I did not expect that much attention on my first Pope story! You guys rock. Here is the next part. I also realized after I wrote the last part that Vin was Pope’s cellmate. I didn’t remember that when I offhandedly picked Vinny for a “prison” name for the uncle, so I’m trying to decide if I want to change it for clarity's sake.

***I do not have much knowledge of the justice system. This will NOT be accurate. I’ve only done a few Google searches to make my creative brain happy. This is done for entertainment and the enjoyment factor.***

MasterList

Threats & Regulations

You walked down a familiar hallway, stopping at a half-opened door. You had the courtesy to knock on the open frame almost sarcastically. The man behind the desk looked up, and you saw the exact moment he realized it was you standing there. “Jesus,” He sighed and set his pen down on the ledger in front of him. He seemed to be finding himself, gearing up for battle.

“Nice to see you too, Rick.” You walked fully into the office, standing in front of his desk. He started before you could even open your mouth.

“I know what you're here for.” You raised your eyebrows, did he now? What had happened that he thought you had found out? “And there is no way you can get your cousin Tracy out of-”

“Oh,” You say dismissively, “I’m not here about that.”

“You’re not.” Rick’s voice was deadpan and clearly suspicious.

“No, I’m sure whatever you think Tracey did, he did. And he needs to learn that he isn’t untouchable, and there are consequences when he does stupid shit.” Tracey was twenty and in for carjacking and a hit and run after smashing into a Taco Bell. “I was hungry.” He was also stoned out of his mind. He was young, but he was also innately stupid. You hoped his six-month stint would teach him something. 

Wishful thinking. 

“Then what are you here for?” You knew that you had grown on Rick. He was used to seeing you. Your family got into trouble in prison, and you showed up. Like clockwork. Every time. His predecessor, who had retired, had been glad to get rid of you, and Rick met you in his office on his first day. You honestly felt a little bad for that one. Especially since you had ripped him a new one and made him call the warden. Rick had hated you, then dreaded to see you walk through his door (still probably did), but it had slowly moved into acceptance that you would always be around to now, with a begrudging respect and a certain amount of exhaustion. He fought less now, which was kind of sad. You missed it. He knew you never came in half-cocked, and that if you were gearing up for a fight, chances were you had enough to win.

“Andrew Cody.” 

“Pope?” Rick’s eyebrows shot up, and he sat up straighter in his rolling chair. Then he shifted a little uncomfortably. Your eyes caught the movement, but you say nothing. “That was not a name I was expecting to hear.”

“I still don’t understand the nicknames in here.” You mumble to yourself before saying simply, “I want to see him.” Rick turned back to his computer and started typing on his keyboard. You knew it was for show. Based on his reaction, he knew exactly who you were talking about, and he was about to try to play redirect and cover his and everyone else's asses.    

 He moved the mouse, clicking twice, and then scrolling. You let him play his game.“He is in solitary.”

“Yeah, heard he is in there a lot.” You tap your hands on the desk purposely off-rhythm. Rick continued to look at his computer like it held the answers to the universe- like how to get out of this conversation. He started typing again and then hummed. 

“You don’t even have his written consent to visit him.” Okay, bring on the redirection- and a logical point. “Do you even know him?”

“Yes,” You say easily. You had. Yesterday, as he was being paraded down the hall. A sick example of dominance and a clear show of unchecked power. An example of what could happen to anyone if they stepped out of line.

“Really?” Rick looked unimpressed at best. So, you tell a little white lie. Something that had every possibility of being true. Maybe you really had met Andrew Cody. Your family wasn’t exactly particular about whose company they kept.

“Yes, he was my cousin’s best friend's boyfriend for a while. He used to hang out in the same crowd as us. He was older, but I had a thing for him. He barely gave me any-”

“I find that hard to believe.” Rick abruptly cut you off. “He’s been in here almost a year, and you’re just now coming to his defense?” Yeah, that really didn’t sound like you-another point for Rick. Maybe he did have some fight left in him. Or a big secret to try to bury.

You cross your arms, frowning.“I just found out that he was here.”

“I’m calling bullshit. On all of it.” You huff out a laugh, dropping your arms. If Rick wants to square up, he'd better be ready.

“You know what, you want to play it that way, fine.” Rick tried for casual confidence, but there was a tightness in his jaw and a small pinch between his eyebrows. “How long has he been in solitary for? Consecutively.” At his pause, I gesture overdramatically, “Do you need to check your little computer again?”

He doesn’t take the bait.

“Three months.” The length should have surprised you. It wasn’t uncommon for the system to keep prisoners in solitary confinement for cruel amounts of time. There were more checks now. But they often got skimmed around. If there was nobody to ask questions, why bother wasting the time? That’s why having a connection on the outside was as necessary as having them on the inside. 

“Then I’m sure there is a damn good reason that he is still locked up. And I’m sure that you have the proper paperwork to support the decision for him to stay in solitary confinement. California state law says that every three weeks, a meeting has to be held to review the case and see if it is still appropriate and necessary.” He was quiet, his hand flexing on the pen he was holding. “And with that paperwork for the extensions, I’m sure you have video proof of any and all aggravated or violent behavior that would be a cause for that extension.” There is a flicker of something you’re not quite sure of at the mention of video. Brief but definitely there. 

“All, of course, signed by a minimum of five personnel and the warden for the case reviews, with notarization and transcripts.” He leans forward, moving stacks of papers around on his desk. For what you're not sure. You know he doesn’t have the paperwork. And on the next to no chance that he did, it wouldn’t be randomly sitting on his desk. You’re not 100% sure about Andrew’s history, but are confident enough to add.  “Not to mention that people with mental illness are not supposed to be in solitary confinement for over fifteen days consecutively.”

At this, Rick’s posture went straighter, a sliver of confidence resurfacing. “There is nothing regarding mental illness in Pope’s file.” Miss. Well, you can’t win them all-but then again…

“That is strange. I would think he would, considering he is constantly being shot up with sedatives. With that kind of consistent use, a mental health assessment would have been conducted. I’m sure you have that paperwork too- signed by a licensed psychiatrist.”

“I’m also sure that his time there was as ethical as possible, with time outside at a minimum of every two days, and a shower every four, food three times a day, and medical care when needed. Because guards actively abusing their prisoners is just not a good look.”

Rick's voice rose, and you had clearly hit a nerve. He stood up too. Probably to get some height on you. “That sounds a lot like an accusation. Unfounded at that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. But I suppose that is for the court of public opinion to decide.” He looked less than impressed. “Look, I’m not stupid enough to think that I could get enough of the general public to care about prisoners to get a real win. But I can make your life and everyone else who works here a lot harder. I mean, an “accusation” like this would have to be looked into. Once state inspectors show up to dig through all this place's dirty secrets. That sounds like enough of a win for me.” You smile at him, nodding your head side to side, pursing your lips in mock thought. “Tell me what looks worse, videos of guards doing cruel and unusual punishments to their prisoners or no video at all?” You hold your hands, visualizing the weight of the two bad options.

Rick holds his hands up in a placating manner. There is definitely something going on with videos. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What can we do to fix this internally?”

“Internally? I want him out of solitary. Right now.” Your eyes lock with his icy blue ones. “I want you to get him a paper to sign so that I can have visitation. And I want to see him-today.”

Rick picks up the receiver and starts dialing.“ I would make sure that he has a chance to shower and change first. Maybe see a doctor for those bruises would be a good idea, too. I can wait. And reassign him to a different cell block, too. Just to be on the safe side. Maybe one of my idiot cousins has a bed free.”

That probably went too far. Not for Rick, but yourself. You should have checked with your family about it first. Throwing people into the mix wasn’t something taken lightly. Another person who could cause problems for an already tight-knit group of testosterone-filled men. What did you even really know about this guy?

Rick is talking on the phone, but you're not paying too much attention until he says loudly, “Just do it!” You smile to yourself- did enjoying this make you a bad person? Maybe. You start heading for the open door to wait. There was one last thing that needed to be said. 

“Oh, and Rick, the next time someone puts him in solitary or dopes him up on sedatives, they better have a damn good reason.”

I’m not going anywhere.

You're not mad when it takes them over an hour to take you back to see him. You were still flying high on winning in the battle of the wits. You were sitting in an empty visitation room when they led him in, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

Andrew Cody.

His prison uniform was clean, his pale skin still tinged pink from a thorough scrub, freckles dotting his arms and neck. His hair was freshly washed, and you noticed now it had a reddish hue when the sunlight from the windows hit it. He was still bruised up with the addition of a split eyebrow that he hadn’t had the day before, held together with two butterfly stitches. He was stumbling over his feet. When you looked into his hazy eyes, though, you wondered how much of it was drugs vs lack of sleep.

What did they do to you? 

Andrew was pushed down roughly into a chair, and you gave the guard a look that he scoffed at before heading to the wall to “monitor” the interaction. You caught the name on his tag- Hilty. You would remember that.

You thought about talking to him, asking if he was okay. But you doubted that he would remember any of this when the fog in his mind cleared. He stared at you, but his hazel eyes were distant and glazed over. So, you just sat in silence, letting him have the next thirty minutes to himself to regulate before he was thrust back on the noisy cell block. If your cousin knew what was good for him, he would shut up and let Andrew sleep. You weren’t sure if you had ever seen anyone who was more in need of it. 

When the visit ended, and they came back to cuff him, you say, mostly for the guards' benefit. “Get some sleep, Andrew. I’ll see you next week. Monday.” 

I'm not sure what you mean by "move around so fluidly."? So I can't answer to that part, but I know the moment when he lifted her, it looks like I ignored it for sure. But in my mind, he was hopped up on anxiety that had been bubbling through him most of the shift, which fueled his adrenaline. And adrenaline is known to mask pain because it numbs pain receptors.

So, when I was writing, I was thinking about it in that regard. He definitely will feel it when he settles down, and he knows Mel is okay. Just like Mel will feel all of her injuries now that she no longer has to focus on keeping that man (Dominic) alive.