#feels nice

Which has been often. He now sees you almost everyday, when you stop by Smurfs to meet up with Craig and Deran or when you ask him to pick you up from the salon after a shift even though your car is fixed.

You've never been so present at the Cody household before and some stupid part of Pope's mind thinks that it's because of him.

He knows thats he is definitely not why... but he can't keep help himself from not hanging around, just incase you show up.

Pope has come to terms with the fact that he likes being around you. You never look at him as if you should be afraid, you didn't flinch when he held your hand, and you told him parts about yourself that were hard for you to share.

You make him feel... normal. Like a regular, average guy that girls hold hands with and sometimes cut the hair of.

And he wants to do the same. He wishes he was able to tell you whats going on in his head, but he just can't. It's like the admission always gets lodged in his throat. You must think he is an idiot, because all he has managed to tell you so far is that he used to skateboard and how he cuts his fucking sandwiches diagonally.

You deserve more than that. Sometimes he thinks he should tell you about Julia. The twin sister he hasn't seen in years and didn't choose over Smurf when it came down to it. But even thinking about his sister, who he no longer knows what she is up to or where she even is exactly, makes him physically sick. Stomach churning and eyes stinging kind of sick.

Start with something easier, he thinks to himself. Maybe about how when he was younger, Jax Lyle would make him angry just to see his face get all red and his eyes go all wild with unrestrained anger? No. That makes him sound even more insane.

Popes jaw tightens as he jabs at his punching bag. It's been almost 100 degrees in California this past week and he, for some reason, is sparring with the black bag that hangs on a flimsy stand in Smurfs backyard.

Thats not true— he knows the reason why he chose to let himself get all sticky with sweat and tire out his arms from throwing punches all day. Its because he's frustrated... sexually.

Jesus. How embarrassing is that? Pope is a 33 year old man and can't get it up for anyone else besides his 21 year old friend.

Not that he is trying with anyone else.

He's never really been into porn because he thinks that its too staged. Too unfeeling. And he is not about to have Smurf get him another call girl. She actually hasn't done that for him in a while and he feels an unbelievable sense of relief about that fact.

The act always makes him feel dirty afterward. Hollow. Like his own skin doesn't belong to him anymore. Last time he had been with anyone that was not paid by his mother was almost two years ago. It had been his brothers girlfriend.

Catherine had been drunk and mad at Baz for ignoring her and their newborn baby, so she turned to Pope for... well, he didn't know what she gained from the one night stand exactly.

All he gained was another layer of self hatred and more obsession for Cath. He would picture her in all of the girls since that night that she pretended didn't happen.

He would also think of her and that night that she regretted and he cherished, when he fucked his hand. It made for a truly pathetic life he was living.

And now, he has somehow gotten even more pathetic. Because Catherine hasn't shown up in one of his dirty fantasies in months. Only you have been residing in those.

Pope feels like some sort of pervert trying to not think of you when he jerks off in the shower. But you always drift into his mind anyway. Your pretty smile, your lovely voice, the way your eyes light up when you say something to make his brows shoot up in surprise...

He grunts as he throws an extra harsh punch into the bag, wincing when the calloused leather scratches at his knuckle. He took off his gloves an hour ago because he needed to feel something besides shame and arousal.

He probably shouldn't be destroying his hands since he has the job with Jared and his brothers in two days, but he doesn't care about that too much. He's dreading it to be honest.

Spending the next thirty minutes moving and striking until his arms were jelly, Pope could barely think or move think by the time he heard the gate swing open.

"Oh..." the voice sounded disappointed to find him there. Uncomfortable even. He didn't need to turn around to know that Catherine was standing a few feet behind him.

His mind yells at his arms to move. To keep punching so she walks away and knows not to bother him, but they don't budge.

"Pope? Can I..." She sounds nervous. Hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"

He sighs— not even feeling any sort of anticipation or excitement at her wanting to talk to him— turning to face her with his permanent scowl in tact.

He used to think that she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. But when he turns to face her, he sees her for what she truly is.

Tired. Lonely. Sad.

She has dark bags under her eyes and her black hair is frizzy and unkempt. He knows who is doing this to her. It was once his dream to save her from him. But she didn't choose Pope. She chose Baz.

She stares at him for a moment before something shifts behind her exhausted eyes. Something he can't decipher.

Cath fiddles with the strap of her tank top, voice sounding smaller than Pope has ever heard it, "I um... you haven't been around lately."

Pope's brows furrow. She had asked him multiple times to stay away... why is she saying that like its not what she asked him to do?

"You didn't want me to be," his tone is clipped.

Catherines eyes trail over his sweat soaked black t-shirt that clings to his muscles, tight mma shorts that he works out in and she... bites her lip?

He feels a little grossed out at the sight. Four months ago, he would've given anything for her to look at him like that. But now, her lip bite just makes him think of your lip bite.

Pope's cheeks flush a bit when he thinks of your soft lips under your perfect teeth as you look at him with a pretty expression that makes his zipper feel tight. Cath must notice his shift in mood because she smirks for a split second, thinking it's because of her.

Is she— happy that he is aroused? No. Not happy. Satisfied.

Pope's stomach churns with confusion. His thoughts pick up speed slightly as he tries to figure out what she is doing here. Talking to him. Looking at him like that.

Cath shrugs and slowly steps towards him with one of her hands playing with her ratty hair. "I know but, I didn't think that... you know?"

Pope's head recoils, face scrunching. She didn't what? Think he'd actually be able to stay away from her? Get over her?

His shoulders lock up with tension. What is happening right now? He feels like he's missing a puzzle piece. Like he is 8 years old again and Jax Lyle stole his favorite toy car, and he is left to search the playground for it until the sun sets.

He's having the hardest time processing what she is trying to do, when she quite literally bats her eyelashes at him. An uncomfortable chill dances up his spine.

"I guess I just— maybe sort of... missed you," Her soft words are strained. Forced and fake on her tongue.

Pope just blinks at her. Uneasiness tangible in his mouth and not just because of the sweat dripping down his neck.

Catherine pauses for a beat, as if she's waiting for him to jump up and down with excitement. He doesn't.

She exhales a breath thats half scoff, half confusion.

It makes Pope feel like he's he's a bug under a microscope. Being analyzed for weaknesses. "Anyways..." she's back to sounding awkward. "I wanted to see if you knew where Baz was. I haven't seen him in a few days and I just.. um.. yeah."

Pope wants to say 'He's been cheating on you with Lucy in Mexico for the past three days'. But he doesn't. Not because he wants to protect Catherines feelings, it's in this moment that he realizes he doesn't care about her feelings anymore, that ache that festered in his chest every time she was upset is long gone. The only emotion he feels towards her now is apprehension.

"Nope," he huffs. "Haven't seen him."

Cath's eyes drop, shoulders sag, she lets out a deep sigh. Painting a hollow smile on her face, she looks back up at Pope with a sadness one can only describe as pitiful.

Her tone is… maybe playful? "Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh? I can always find you around."

Pope feels like he's been shot in the chest.

Her words ring in his ears. 'I can always find you around.'

Not intended to mean that he's reliable or dependable. But easy. Eager. An obsessed puppy dog that comes back even after being kicked.

Jesus Christ.

His throat dries up. He blinks rapidly to try and quell the thrum of tense emotions circling deep within him.

'You haven't been around lately.'

She didn't want him to. She acted like she did just because she needed information about his brother.

His brother that she chose over him. Willingly. Even though he had loved her. She did not want Pope. He knew that.

He clenches his jaw and fists involuntarily, starting to twitch all over at the turmoil brewing beneath his skin.

Suddenly, birds are chirping too loudly, the sun is too hot on his skin, and the breeze is a shrill scream instead of a soft whisper in his ears.

Catherine must sense the change, so she mumbles a quick goodbye, not sparing him another glance as she shuffles back through the gate.

'I guess I just— maybe sort of... missed you.'

Blood rushes to his ears. His heart pounding loudly enough to compete with the voices. The spiral.

*thump thump thump*

'Missed you.'

Pope's mind is screaming. His own voice comes flooding in first.

Has she ever seen him as anything other than a way to keep tabs on Baz? Did she ever care about him? Was she ever really his friend?

Popes bruised hands claw at his chest. Every article of clothing is suddenly too tight on his body. His skin is too slick with sweat.

He feels every scalding drop that runs down his back, giving him chills that make his stomach roll.

The overstimulation douses him and his mind caves in on itself.

Years of unreciprocated pining boil to the surface. He feels small. Pathetic. Stupid.

'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'

Fuck.

She was using him. She never cared. He had been so accessible to her that she thought she could bat her eyelashes and he would come running.

His skin is on fire. Hot, unrelenting sparks burrow under him and burn him alive. He starts to scratch at it. It soothes nothing.

*thump thump thump*

New voices flood his mind. Smurfs. Catherine’s. Baz’s.

All of them saying words that haunt him. Treating him in ways that keep him up at night. Keep him hating himself.

Shapes and colors start flying through his vision. My feet are moving, is a fleeting coherent thought.

Pope feels his control over his body slipping through his fingers.

'I can always find you around.'

*thump thump thump*

Footsteps pound on the concrete. Must be running.

Up the driveway, out to the sidewalk.

His body jolts. He’s run into something— no someone. The blurry figure yells. Loudly and angry. A man's voice.

Pope is shoved. Hard.

A feeling claws its way to the surface. Tearing at his insides. A visceral rip through his chest.

Anger.

No longer in control of his body, he lunges forward. He sideways now... on the ground maybe? Yes. On the ground.

The mans beneath him.

'Missed you.'

Pope yells to try and stop her voice echoing in his ears. It’s a wounded sound. Nothing changes. He gets angrier.

He punches the man.

One hit and a slight ease flows through his throbbing bloodstream. His burning skin. The small relief it brings has Pope bring his fist to connect with the strangers face. Once. Twice.

Again. Again.

*thump thump thump*

'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'

He can't see anything. Only hearing muffled gasps from the stranger and his own broken sobs.

Pope's throat is lined with thorns, his arms only knowing the motion of downward punches, his mind feels like it’s shattering inside his skull.

He doesn’t know how long he repeats his hits.

But his arm grows achey. A new feeling.

'I can always find you around.'

A twinge of pain flicks through his knuckles. He hears something crack. Someone in the distance screams for help.

Pope looks up. Eyes unfocused on his surroundings.

Every muscle is locked tight. His heart is beating too fast. Hurts. Stings. Cracks.

He hears panicked shouts above the thrumming of his heart in his ears.

*thump thump thump*

Watery coughs choke from the man below him.

He moves. Standing up? Yes. Up.

'Missed you.'

*thump thump thump*

His feet pick a direction. He's running now. Commotion behind him drifts further and further away.

The pain gets clearer and clearer.

Pope inhales as deeply as he can, willing himself to piece together somewhere he can go. He can't breathe fast enough to catch up with his lungs need for air.

Think. Breathe. Think. Breathe.

He needs a place. Refuge from his thoughts that are trying to split him in half.

'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'

Everything comes into focus for a singular second.

His mind quiets, emphasizing only one name.

Yours.

Your gum was flavorless at this point, but you were still chewing on it anyway because you were conflicted.

You were currently nestled onto your couch, having an internal debate about whether or not you should go out with Jared. Sure, you were gonna meet with him anyways for business purposes for your mother.

But go on a few dates? That, you didn't know.

Your mom had been happy you agreed to give him your number. But it was during a fleeting moment of revenge slash humiliation when you learned Pope was in love with Catherine.

Now, the revenge part had died down— mostly because he wouldn't even care if you did date Jared— but the humiliation stayed.

You could officially admit you had a crush on Pope Cody. Not feelings. That word is too... deep. Too serious. But a crush was where you landed. Unfortunately.

You went to one of your moms spas with Kendra the other night for free massages and manicures, and she gave you a big fat ‘I told you so’ about your admission. She went on and on about how its clear he likes you too. But you shut her down when you told her that he was in love with someone else.

She had blanched apologetically, then suggested that you go on a date with her fiancees super hot friend. You said maybe.

It has been a while since you've been on a date with a guy. You miss the attention and the certainty of knowing that the man at dinner, no matter how annoying, wants you badly.

Pope doesn't give you that. Nope, you feel like an insecure teenager with him again.

You grimace as you spit your gum into a tissue and threw it in your small wicker trashcan next to your sofa.

Sagging back into the couch, you prepare to extensively continue your internal debate on this fine Sunday night.

Your preparations are interrupted however, when a pounding sounds on your door.

You jolt slightly at the intensity of the knock. Loud and rushed. An ounce harder and the wood might have cracked.

You pad over and swing open your door to see... Pope standing there.

Well, not standing, exactly. After only a few seconds of staring at him, you see that his demeanor is akin to a wild animal.

He's muttering gibberish, hazel eyes wild and unfocused. His auburn hair, black t-shirt and athletic shorts are all stuck to his body, drenched in sweat.

Your stomach drops at the sight. It feels like you have been doused in cold water as you see him incoherent and visibly shaking.

“I can’t- I don’t-" he begins, never really finishing or leading anywhere.

You keep your voice soft, not knowing whats going on entirely but obviously understanding that he's going through something mentally.

"Pope...?" You raise a slow arm to reach for him, maybe caress his arm or rest on his shoulder. But he flinches, eyes finding yours for a split second before quickly recoiling backwards. Broad chest caving in to avoid any contact.

"Okay, okay," you say all hushed, like you're speaking to a rabid dog. Your eyes finally drop to his bloodied knuckles and you inhale a sharp breath.

You want to bombard him with questions. Starting with, What do you need?

But you don't. He isn't fully... there right now to answer anyway, so you do what you think you would want if you were having a breakdown of your own.

You open your door wider for him and gesture for him to come inside.

Thankfully, he does. His steps are unbalanced and his body is twitching as he moves.

Your gut tightens in worry. He looks unwell. Very unwell.

He starts to pace back and forth, still mumbling rushed words. Some of them you make out. "Chose the wrong..." and "Missed you." and "...Always around."

You slowly close your door and move back to your couch. You don't want to do anything to hurt him further, but your swept by the urge to cry in frustration. You're scared, confused, and so, so concerned.

You tell yourself that you wouldn't want to be stared at in this state. So you quietly pick up a magazine off of your table and open to a random page. Your eyes can't even focus on the drama about the celebrities in Hollywood as you have to force your foot still as it begs to nervously tap.

You don't turn the page once. You don't even shift an inch on the couch with the thought in mind that you wouldn't want the sounds of pages turning right now if you were Pope.

Seconds, then minutes pass by of him doing nothing but shaking his head, rambling broken sentences and twitching his fingers.

You don't hear his feet shift for a few minutes after a while, but you don't look up yet.

"You— you can turn the page,” His raspy voice is barely a whisper.

You glance up at him and shoot him a soft smile. He is standing still now, not looking any less twitchy, but his hazel eyes aren't glazed over anymore and they're focused on you. Nodding once, you then return to your magazine. You turn the page.

Obviously not absorbing any information, you are very aware when Pope gradually moves to sit next to you on the couch, his breathing a bit more even now, but still scratchy.

You don't look up from the magazine when you quietly suggest, "Want some water?"

He doesn't answer and you know that he has most definitely answered with a head nod. You move to get him some water and from the corner of your eye, you see him reach for you before freezing and dropping his hesitant hand, as if he's decided against it.

When you come back with water, Pope's eyes are glued to his bloodied knuckles. The glass stays untouched on the coffee table as you sit by his side, silent. You tuck your feet under your thighs and angle your shoulders towards him. You're not really sure what he needs right now, but you can assume its not you asking him why his knuckles are—

"I broke someones nose," he says, too unsteady to be a confession but too direct to be considered anything else. His knees shift slightly at their place on the couches edge, still facing completely forward.

You nod, not entirely knowing what to do with that information. You wouldn't dare ask who the someone is.

Surprisingly though, relief courses through you at his statement. Not because he broke someones nose, but because he clearly remembers it. Seeing how he was when he first showed up, you are just glad he is sitting down and talking right now.

The only mental struggles you've ever witnessed were your own. A few anxiety attacks here and there when you were in high school and you had do deal with the classic mean girls.

But this... you're pretty sure you just saw Pope have a full on mental breakdown, and you feel so helpless right now you don't even care that he just admitted to assaulting someone. All that you feel is a relaxing hint of solace that he still holds the pieces together.

He meets your eyes, freckled face pulled taught with an emotion you've never seen on him before. Fear.

"I don't think I meant to— I just..." he clears his throat when his words sound almost meek. "It happened. I don't know how. Or why."

You should say words now... right?

"Okay," you steady your voice as much as you can. "Do you think your knuckles are broken?"

Pope blinks at you, searching your face for something that you're not sure what it is exactly.

"W-what?" you ask. His features are hard as granite, you have no idea what you said wrong.

"You're not... scared of me?" beneath his usual raspy tone is a waiver of shock.

Your head recoils, nose scrunching like a bunny's, "Why— why would I be scared of you?"

Popes eyes widen a fraction, which for him means they basically were bulging out of his head, "I just told you that I— You seriously aren't...?"

You giggle and for a second you regret it, not wanting to have him think you're laughing at him, but his shoulders sag at the sound. A fleeting bubble of warmth fills your chest, but you don't let it stay.

"If you think that a bit of violence and a few bloody knuckles would scare me, then you clearly have forgotten than your two idiot brothers are my best friends," You sigh, feigning discontent. "I couldn't even tell you how many times I've patched up cuts for Deran or held an ice pack to bruises on Craigs back."

Pope doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, straight backed and tight faced, as if he's never seen you before. It seems like he really did forget that you have been around the Cody's for years. Makes sense though, since he wasn't apart of it up until a few months ago.

Your voice gets softer, "I know you, Pope. You don't scare me."

You reach your hand out and intertwine your fingers with his on top of his thigh. If you weren't trying to coax him out of an internal spiral, you would harp on the fact that your hand felt so right in his. How it fits perfectly, warming you from the outside in.

Pope's eyes drop to the point of contact, doing nothing but steadily breathing for a few seconds, then his fingers tighten around yours, as if he also feels the warmth it brings.

"You don't, though," his voice cracks. "Not really."

You furrow your brows, but as you open your mouth to argue that you do, you stop yourself. If he really thought so, then he wouldn't have said any different. And it is true that you have done the hefty portion of all the sharing so far in your friendship. So maybe...

"Okay, you're right. I don't," you surrendered, shifting closer to him an inch. "So, could you maybe let me?"— the corners of his mouth turn downward as if he doesn't understand—" Know you, I mean." You clarify.

His mouth replicates a fish's for almost a full minute, just opening and closing. You gather that he's not sure how to respond.

Has truly no one ever tried to get to know him before?

Right as you're about to give up and tell him if he doesn't want to you're not going to force him, he speaks.

"Earlier I uh... had something happen to me. In my head, ," his words are shaky. Unpracticed. "It's happened before where I sort of, black out. My mind stops being, um, mine and..."

He trails off, eyes darting everywhere but to your own. You give his hand a light squeeze to know that you're still listening. Still not scared.

His bares his teeth as he grits his next words out, "It happened a lot when I was younger. I used to get mad all the time. I'd destroy classrooms and, uh, get into it with others kids when it would happen..."

"Did you ever...?" You can't quite form the words to ask if he's ever spoken to a professional about this, but he seems to understand.

"Smurf taught us to lie to shrinks," His tone is clipped. Your heart sinks when you think about young Pope who got no help, who is now all grown up and suffers the consequences.

You will the tears away that brim at your waterline as he continues speaking.

"So, no. I— I don't know why it happens. Usually when I'm angry or confused or—" He leans forward and straightens one of the books on your coffee table with his free hand— "Overwhelmed."

You hum in amusement at his movement, causing his dark eyes to flick to yours. Needing a reprieve from the tightness in your chest, you say lightly, "You're very tidy. I know that about you."

His lips twitch upward slightly and he nods, "I also don't really know why that is either. It... helps me when things are clean and, uh, in order."

You nod as you supply a gentle, "Tell me more about what happened earlier."

His fingers tense around yours and his jaw clenches. Unease is radiating off him as he continues to speak, "I thought that I understood something about... someone. But I was wrong. They never—" He tears his eyes from yours, starting to blink rapidly.

"Pope..." you start, but he shakes his head, effectively stopping you.

He finally turns his whole body towards you, shoulders parallel with yours. He rolls his lips, "Sometimes my thoughts get so bad that—" he inhales a sharp breath, lips quirking sideways, — "that I think my mind makes me go crazy 'nd not remember anything, just so I don't have to think them anymore."

It almost makes sense.

"And that..."— you're not sure what to ask exactly— "that helps?"

The shake of his head is almost instant, auburn curls that still stick to his forehead a bit move with the gesture.

"Okay... what does help?" you feel the nausea churn in your stomach at the thought of never being able to help him, or even understand what he's going through.

His eyes meet yours once again, now clear and filled with more sincerity than you've ever seen.

Pope then says one word that steals the breath from your lungs, "You."

You feel like your world has been titled off it's axis. His admission is so matter of fact that you let yourself believe it.

Because you're here. Sitting with him, holding his hand, and listening to him as he lets you inside his mind.

Without thinking twice about comforting him— and yourself as your lip quivers slightly— you unlink your hands and reach up to softly cup his cheek. His hazel eyes burn into yours instantly, but he doesn't flinch like all the other times you've gotten this close.

After a beat of eye contact that makes your stomach go all wavy, his eyes flutter shut, allowing himself to be touched by you.

His face is soft as he shifts beneath your palm, you would use the word nuzzle, but that feels too... no thats definitely what it is. Pope Cody was nuzzling his face into your hand that rested softly on his cheek.

"Feels nice," his soft mutter is so quiet you wouldn't have heard it over your own breathing if you had been doing so. But you weren't of course, because your whole body was feeling a bit fuzzy and your lungs went tight the second you started tracing your thumb along his cheekbone.

It was so... intimate. He was being completely vulnerable with you physically now, something he has never truly done before.

Pope kept lightly rubbing his face against you, words almost spilling out of his mouth now, but still at a low whisper that felt like they were a secret for you to keep, "I like this... and I like—"

His face freezes and his body tenses. Eyes shooting open, he purses his lips together tightly to cut off whatever he was going to say next, as if he has to physically keep it himself from saying it.

He looks so alarmed by what he was about to say, that your heart sinks to the floor.

Was he... was he going to talk about Catherine?

Oh god.

Maybe he was still out of it. Maybe he was picturing her holding his face right now instead of you.

Your stomach churns and heat burns your face as you realize you have stupidly read too much into yet another interaction with Pope.

You start to pull your hand away before mortification threatens to swallow you whole, when his own large hand shoots up to grab it.

He scans your face and furrows his brows slightly, as if he doesn't understand what's wrong.

Pope then links your fingers back together and moves them to rest onto his chest. You feel his steady heartbeat under the back of your hand.

He opens his mouth and asks you a question that you ask him almost every time you see him. His voice is gruff— and if you didn't immediately tell yourself thats not what it is— you almost think he sounds eager, "Tell me something about yourself that no one else knows."

You blink at him, half baffled, half amused. Not bothering to pretend you won't, you part your lips to give him an answer, but the repeated buzz of your phone from your coffee table cuts you off.

Normally, you wouldn't dare check your phone while in a serious conversation like this. But right now, you need an excuse to break eye contact with Pope in order to not find a sign that he is picturing someone else within them.

Your jaw unhinges at the texts that await on your lock screen when you open it up.

Unknown number:

Hey it’s Jared.

Your mom told me you’re free this week. I’ll pick you up Wednesday at 8.

You got a motorcycle helmet, doll?

Jesus.

Can't you catch a break?

"Do you..." Popes wary tone straightens your spine. "Do you need to get that?"

Your hand is still in his. Your skin is still pressed against his t-shirt so closely that you feel the pace of his heart beat pick up as he awaits your answer.

But you've been over this. It's not the same for you as it is for Pope. It means something different to him.

You place our phone down and glance back to him.

"Not right now. But... but I think I will later."

"What the fuck is he doing?!" Baz hisses when the Cody brothers hear a loud car engine revving from outside the building.

"Being a fucking asshole like I told you he would be!" Craig supplies, voice hushed due to where they are, but still allowing his anger to sharpen his words.

"Shut up! We're not getting caught cause of you're bitching," Pope snarls as quietly as he can. His words echoing off the bright white walls.

The evidence room of the crime lab that the three of the Cody's currently stand in is small and looks like a hospital waiting room.

That's right. Crime lab.

After they agreed to steal back whatever Jared Lyle had lost— because Smurf would've cut them off probably if they didn't— they were then informed that said 'product' was 60 kilos of fucking coke.

One of Jared's warehouses had been raided and was taken to the forensic laboratory three towns over they're currently standing in. Currently robbing, actually.

Baz formulated the plan with Pope's help. Due to all of them already having hefty criminal records, they had to get creative.

Baz and Pope used fake ID's that one of Smurfs connections made for them. They disguised themselves as delivery men from the Oceanside police department and claimed they had to 'check on the product' because of.. blah blah blah. Pope hadn't really been listening to Baz while he charmed the busty blonde receptionist at the front desk.

All he could focus on was how itchy his dark blue policemen uniform had been.

Craig was the one who bribed one of the janitors to give him their ID. He taped a sticker of his face onto it and waltzed right in. Baz only let Craig do that shit because it always worked for him.

Jared Lyle, claiming that he needed to be apart of this plan because it was— in his own words— "His fucking shit in that damn lab", was named the getaway driver.

The driver who was supposed to be quiet and wait for a phone call before moving the car, but was currently revving his engine in the back alley that the lab was connected to.

Fucking asshole.

They had finished loaded up the coke into the trash bags from Craigs janitorial cart, when Deran's text came through on Pope's phone.

Moving to evidence now. Just left for 'bathroom'.

Deran's roll, being the youngest and actually college age, was a student on one of the university tours that were held daily at the lab. There were only a handful of scientists and security guards that walked the halls, and they were all occupied with guiding the tour in order to watch the college kids.

It was Baz's idea, and as much as his brothers hated to admit it, it was working pretty fucking well. Deran was texting them the whereabouts of the guards that led the group as they moved through the two story building.

"Let's go! Tours on it's way, Deran's heading out," Pope grits out as Baz finishes up his drilling of the nails from the window pane.

The tension was always high when they did jobs together. Adrenaline had gotten the better of them on too many jobs. But this time was different.

Not because something was going wrong, but because they knew who waited in the fucking alley as their way out of the potential prison sentence.

When Baz was coming up with the plan, the boys had strong opinions over where Jared would be placed. Craig refused to be in the same room as him, and Deran refused to be the driver if Jared got to be inside. So, there was only one roll for him to fill.

Pope didn't like it though. Sure, he didn't like any of the Lyle's, from their calculating dad to their psychopath of an oldest son, but he especially didn't like working with someone he didn't trust.

But they had no choice. Smurf was involved and there was no way out.

So, tensions were at an all time high today, even worse then when they held the few meetings with Jared to discuss their plans. At one of them, Pope had to hold Craig back when Jared kept making comments about how he was surprised Craig was even involved. Calling him some very derogatory names in order to say he was too stupid to be apart of it.

They all hated Jared, who didn't show up to multiple meetings because he thought he was too good for them.

So, Pope isn't really surprised, that when they all hop in the car after shoving the coke through the window and climbing out after it, the boys are all completely silent as Jared speeds off.

"Fuck yeah baby!" Jared yells as his foot is basically slammed on the gas. The whole car tips sideways as he exits onto the highway at 96 miles per hour.

"Slow down. Now!" Baz tries and fails to tell Jared from his place in the passenger seat.

The other three Cody's are squished into the backseat. The 5 dozen kilos of coke sit in trash bags in the trunk.

"Are you trying to kill us asshole!?" Craig shouts, gripping onto the door in fear for his life.

"Don't need to kill you Craig! You'll do that yourself when you snort away the last three fucking braincells you have!" Jared cackles from the drivers seat. His sunglasses hug his face and his dark hair whips in the wind.

"That's it," Craig yells as he starts to lunge forward but Pope intercepts him. Well, he tries to. He barely gets a hold on Craigs grey janitors sleeve as he dives across the backseat.

The car swerves as Craig manages to grab one of Jared leather jacket clad arms with a huge hand, tugging as hard as he can.

"Craig you fucking idiot!" Deran screams as the Cadillac flies into the right lane and almost completely off the road into the cement wall that lines the highway.

Pope's stomach flips and bile rises in his throat at the powerful jolt.

He can't even form the thought of fearing for his life before his breath is knocked out of him, as he's crushed in between Deran and Craigs huge frame as they're all whipped to the left due to the force.

"If we get pulled over, we're headed to Folsom with your fucking brother, Jared! Slow the fuck down!"

Pope bristles at the mention of Jax, but he can't harp on it because Baz's words thankfully get through to the youngest Lyle. Jared slows the car down to only 20 over the speed limit. Still too much, but no one pushes further.

When the car is no longer a roller coaster slash death trap, everyone settles only slightly. Craigs fists are balled up tight onto his lap and Deran's jaw is clenched so tight Pope half thinks it might snap.

Baz has his phone out and Pope already knows he's letting Smurf know that they're on their way to the junk yard to dispose of the car.

"Didn't peg the Cody boys for such pussys," Jared scoffs as he takes the exit that leads towards the junk yard.

No one takes the bait, but Craig rolls his neck as if he has to do something besides kick Jared's ass.

Jared keeps running his big mouth the whole drive there, while he parks, and the entire walk to their separate cars.

He hops on his motorcycle while guys in his crew load the coke into a black van.

He throws a smug smirk at them, "Maybe I should hire you boys to do this for me more often. Be my personal jockeys y'know? No no, my bitches. Yeah thats more like it."

"We aren't anybody's bitches," Craig finally says, practically shaking with barely restrained anger.

Jared laughs menacingly, "Oh right. I forgot. You're not bitches, and you get no bitches. At least not ones I've gotten to first."

Before Craig can take another swing at him, Pope says his first words since the lab. Molding his face to make his scowl more icy than usual, he makes sure to let the taunting bleed into his tone, "I think the only bitch that we know is your brother, right? Last I heard, thats the only thing he's known for in prison."

Deran chokes on his laughter and Craig doesn't bother holding back his own.

Jared gets visibly exasperated, but he schools his features immediately. He blinks once, then a purely evil smile crosses his face as a clear intention pops into his mind.

His voice is more complacent than Pope has ever heard it as he says, "Right. I forgot you know my brother. Jax told me what the two of you used to get into." He shows all thirty two teeth as he levels a wicked look at the oldest Cody.

"How's that skateboard of yours Pope?"

Unlike Craig, it takes all three of Pope's brothers to hold him back.

authors note: HOWDY LOVLIES! once again.. im so sorry about the long wait.. life got in the way unfortunately :( buttt i like this one. i hope the manic episode writing was clear and not like unreadable or something ... ive never written like that before so sorry if it didn't portray what i thought it was going to.

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