pov. pope and you have been together for months, you promised to stay together with him and never lie to him but ever since you lied to him about knowing baz and the past between you and him, he’s been giving you the silent treatment…. but what he doesn’t know while he’s ignoring you is you’re pregnant.
content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, pregnant!reader, silent treatment, tad bit of angst, bit extreme silent treatment, sensitive!reader, no proof read, tad emotional intimacy(?)
pope moves through the bedroom, the kind of heavy quiet that settles after a loud bang. he’s mad, you can feel it in the air even if he hasn’t said more than a few words all day. months together, promises traded in the dark about staying solid, never lying, building something real away from the family’s endless chaos.
but you lied about baz. about the history, the romantic tangle that happened before pope ever looked at you the way he does now, and ever since it came out, this silence has been his weapon.
he doesn’t glance your way at first when he comes in from the garage, grease still on his hands. you watch from the bed as he kicks off his boots, peels off his shirt slow and mechanically, muscles shifting under scarred skin. he doesn’t slam anything, he’s just quietly undressing like you’re not even there, unbuckling his belt, stepping out of his jeans. the steam starts to fog the bathroom mirror as he twists the shower knob.
you follow him to the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed loose over your chest. the pregnancy sits like a secret weight low in your belly, you don’t even know how far along but you’re still invisible, but it makes every breath feel heavier, every unspoken word sharper.
he doesn’t know, you’ve been holding it, waiting for the right moment that never comes because he’s been pulling away in those distant stares, short answers, the kind of silence that screams louder than yelling.
“what’s wrong, you okay?” you ask soft, tilting your head. he pauses, back to you for a quick second, then turns. his eyes are sharp and almost haunted, the ones that see through bullshit. they lock dead on your face, water runs behind him, hot and loud. “you lied,” he says flat, voice low and rough like it costs him to speak at all. a pause, jaw tight. “about baz.” he adds, clarifying what he meant specifically.
then he steps under the spray without another word, curtain half pulled, letting the water beat down on his shoulders, the silence hits you full force. you stand there, heart kicking hard. “pope, what do you mean?” you asked, but there was no answer, just the sound of water and his back turned, hands braced on the tile like he’s holding himself together.
you had no idea how he even managed to find out, baz promised never to tell. it was not because of how long the history went, it was because it was so small but still there. that was still effective to pope and you.
but you can’t leave it like this. you push the curtains open a crack, steam rushing out warm against your face. “pope, talk to me. please. what are you—” then you stopped, meeting his gaze.
he shoots you a glare over his shoulder, sharp enough to cut. water streams down his face, darkening his hair, his eyes narrowed with that mix of hurt and betrayal he rarely lets show. “you know what i mean.” he said. the words land heavy, final, no room for games.
you pause, throat tight, swallowing hard against the lump there. your hand lingers on the curtains. you nod to yourself more than him, a small defeated motion, and slide the shower curtains closed again with a soft click. “talk to me after you get out the shower, please,” you tell him, voice cracking just a little at the end. a soft sigh escapes as you turn, padding out of the bathroom, the tile cool under your bare feet.
you walk out the bathroom and to the bedroom door, you lock the door quietly, the bolt sliding home so he can’t just walk out like he sometimes does when the weight gets too much. you sink down onto the edge of the bed, the same spot where you’ve curled up with him so many nights, legs dangling, hands resting in your lap.
the t shirt you’re wearing clings a little from the steam. your mind races about the lie about baz, how it was short and meaningless and over before you ever fell for pope’s complicated loyalty, but hiding it broke the one thing he asked for. and now? this secret growing inside you, the baby he doesn’t know about, while he stands in there under the water probably turning everything over in that intense head of his.
you wait, staring at the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower the only thing breaking the heavy quiet between you.
pope comes out a couple minutes later, the shower shut off and steam still curling lazy from the open bathroom door behind him. a white towel hangs low around his waist, tucked tight at the hip, water droplets tracing slow paths down his chest and over the old scars that mark his skin like stories he rarely tells.
his curls are wet and dark, dripping onto his shoulders as he crosses the room without looking at you, bare feet quiet on the floorboards. he goes straight to the dresser, back muscles shifting as he yanks open the top drawer, rifling through folded shirts with those controlled movements that scream he’s still deep in his own head.
you stay where you are on the edge of the bed, legs hanging down, hands clasped tight in your lap to keep them from shaking. the locked bedroom door feels like both protection and trap now. the silence sits heavy, unspoken and growing, making your chest ache with the weight of everything you’re carrying alone while he shuts you out.
you sigh, long and tired. “pope.” you say but you got nothing in return. he doesn’t even pause, just keeps shifting clothes around like you’re background noise. “don’t punish me for this mistake,” you say softer, voice catching a little on the words. the promise you broke hangs there, the lie about baz and that old romantic history you tried to bury.
but there was still no answer from him. his jaw stays locked, eyes fixed on the drawer as he pulls out a plain black t shirt and a pair of jeans.
he finally finds what he’s looking for and drops the towel from around his waist without ceremony, standing bare for a second in the low lamplight before he grabs it again to roughly dry his curls. water flicks onto the floor as he rubs the towel over his head, those dark strands falling messy when he finishes.
“pope!” you raise your voice just enough, not yelling, not sharp enough to trigger that coiled tension he carries, but firm enough to cut through the quiet. it lands with him because his hands still for half a second. “stop ignoring me, please.” you plead.
you beg it outright, leaning forward a little on the bed, eyes locked on him as he starts pulling on the jeans, then tugs the t shirt over his head. the fabric clings slightly to his still damp skin. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak either, he just keeps dressing, slow and methodical, the silent treatment stretching thicker now that he’s out here in the room with you.
his breathing stays even and obviously controlled, but you know him well enough after these months. the way his shoulders stay rigid, the way he avoids your gaze entirely, it’s all punishment wrapped in quiet. loyal to a fault until trust cracks, and when it does, he pulls back hard, protecting whatever’s left.
the room feels smaller with every second he refuses to answer, the locked door he’s not even aware of is keeping him here physically but not making him open up. you watch him finish dressing like the conversation might never happen at all.
pope stands there after pulling on his clothes, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t look at you, just heads for the door like the conversation is already over. his hand closes around the knob and twists. but it doesn’t go far, the lock you slid earlier holds for half a second before he yanks hard once, effortless, the bolt snapping clean with a sharp crack.
wood splinters a little around the frame as the door swings open. he walks out without a word, shoulders squared, leaving the broken lock hanging useless and the door ajar behind him.
hours bleed by after that, and the house stays too quiet for that time. you stay curled up in the bedroom for a while, then drift in and out of uneasy sleep, your thoughts loud. you didn’t hear him come back, didn’t know he’d slipped out to deran’s bar, knocking back a couple drinks in that brooding way he does when the weight of betrayal sits on him, nothing loud, but just enough to dull the edges before coming home.
now it’s late, the kitchen light spilling soft and yellow when you finally push open the bedroom door and step out. your bare feet pad quiet down the hall. there he is at the sink, back to you, broad and solid under the black shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he washes dishes. water runs steady, plates clinking softly. soap suds cover his forearms.
he was scrubbing like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, still wrapped in that heavy silence. you didn’t even know he was home until this moment.
you bite the inside of your cheek, standing there in the doorway for a long second, thinking. part of you wants to turn around, give him more space. the other part, the one that loves him, the one carrying his baby he still doesn’t know about, wins out.
you decide thoughtfully. your feet carry you forward slow until you’re right behind him. your arms slide softly around his waist, hands settling over the warm fabric of his shirt, one palm rubs gentle circles up his back, feeling the tight muscles there, clinging to his side as you press close, breathing him in, that faint mix of bar smoke, soap, and him.
you lean up on your toes, lips aiming for his cheek in a soft kiss, trying to bridge the gap.
but he doesn’t let you. his arm comes up quick but not rough, pressing firm against your chest, blocking the closeness, holding you just far enough away. he turns his head, those intense eyes meeting yours dead on for the first time in hours, hurt and anger. no words at all, just only that look.
then he turns the faucet off with a twist of his wrist, water dripping into the sudden silence. he steps away from your arms, pulling out of your hold like it costs him nothing, and walks off toward the bedroom without glancing back, bare feet quiet on the floor, leaving you standing there by the sink with suds still swirling down the drain.
the house feels colder again as his back disappears down the hall. pope sits on his side of the bed when you finally walk back into the room, the broken door hanging crooked on its hinges from where he yanked it open earlier.
he’s facing the wall, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loose between them, staring straight ahead like the faded paint holds every answer he needs. his back is straight but his shoulders carry that familiar weight, the kind that comes from his own head turning against him. he doesn’t move when you enter, doesn’t acknowledge you at all.
you stand there a moment by the doorway, eyes drifting first to the dishes left abandoned in the sink, suds long gone cold, before you force yourself forward. your bare feet pad soft across the floor until you’re right in front of him, stepping between his spread knees so you’re blocking the wall he’s locked onto.
he stares right through you anyway, those intense eyes unfocused, jaw tight, the muscle there ticking slow like he’s chewing on everything he won’t say. “pope, i’m sorry,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper, thick with the guilt and the secret you’re still carrying.
there was no answer. his breathing stays even, chest rising and falling steady, but he doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift his gaze to meet yours. “can we talk?” you ask, softer this time, searching his face for any crack.
but still nothing. the silence stretches, heavy and familiar now after these days of it. your knees bend before you can stop yourself and you sink down onto the floor in front of him, right between his legs, hands resting light on his thighs so he has to see you.
you tilt your head up, looking straight into those eyes that always see too much and nothing at all right now. the position makes you feel small, vulnerable, but you need him to really look at you.
“please? can you stop ignoring me?” you beg, voice cracking on the last word, eyes stinging as you hold his stare. he stays quiet for a long beat, the stillness wrapping around him like armor. then his gaze finally drops to your face, slowly, his dark eyes focusing on you properly.
there’s no softness there yet, just raw hurt mixed with the betrayal, the kind that cuts deeper because it’s you, the one he let in after so many walls. his jaw works once, tight, like he’s fighting the words back. one of his hands twitches where it rests on his knee, calloused fingers flexing, but he doesn’t touch you. instead he leans back just a fraction, breaking the direct line of your eyes again, staring up at the ceiling now as if it’ll keep him from cracking.
his voice comes finally, low and rough, barely more than a mutter. “talkin’ don’t fix lies.” he replied. it’s short, clipped, the most he’s given you in hours, but it’s something. his way of acknowledging you without fully letting you in.
he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and the silence threatens to swallow the room again as he waits, still not reaching for you, the weight of his disappointment sitting heavy between you.
pope stays leaned back against the headboard, eyes fixed somewhere above you on the ceiling like it’s safer than meeting your gaze head on. you look up at him from your knees, brows furrowing softly with that deep sadness twisting in your chest, the weight of the lie and the secret baby making just being next to him feel heavier. “andrew,” you say simply, his real name slipping out quiet and careful, the one you only use when things cut this deep.
he shifts just a fraction at the sound of it, his jaw tightening again, his stillness cracking only enough for his hand to move slow on his knee, fingers curling inward like he’s holding himself back from reaching or pushing you away. his breathing stays measured, controlled, but you can see the feelings behind his eyes. the loyalty he lives by, the way family and truth tangle up in his head until it drives him quiet or worse.
“i am so sorry,” you continue, voice trembling a little as you stay there on your knees between his legs. “i genuinely didn’t bring it up because i didn’t know how. i have to go about it a certain way with you, i can’t just say, ‘hey i used to date your brother.’ no, that’s unfair—”
pope cuts you off sharp, his voice low and rough, finally dropping his gaze to pin you there on the floor. “unfair?” he repeats, the word biting even though it’s quiet. he leans forward slightly, elbows back on his knees so his face is closer to yours, those intense eyes searching your face like he’s looking for more lies.
“you promised me no secrets. no lies. we stay together through the shit, but you hid that you were with baz? my brother. that’s what’s unfair. you knew how deep that cuts with me, with this family. i don’t do half truths. not after everything.” he stated, his tone stays even but edged, laying it out direct when he finally spoke, no yelling, just that raw honesty mixed with the hurt he doesn’t bother hiding now.
he doesn’t pull his hand away, but he doesn’t soften either, letting the silence threaten again after his words land. you go quiet then, the fight draining as his response sinks in. your hands come up to hold your face for support, palms pressing cool against your warm cheeks, trying to steady the sting behind your eyes.
slowly you lean forward, resting your forehead gentle against the back of his hand where it rests on his knee, breath shaky against his skin. the contact is small but desperate, your body curled there in front of him while the pregnancy secret still sits unspoken inside you, waiting for a moment that feels even further away now.
pope doesn’t move his hand right away, letting it stay under your forehead, his fingers twitching once like he’s fighting the pull to comfort you even as the betrayal lingers thick in the room.
pope stays there with your forehead pressed to the back of his hand, the room wrapped in thick quiet broken only by the faint creak of the old house settling around you. you don’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds, just breathing slow against his skin, eyes closed, letting his words from before sink deeper while your hands stay cupped around your face. the silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid, your lie about baz, the months of promises, and the baby growing quietly inside you that he still doesn’t know about.
he shifts after a while, muscles tensing under your touch like he’s done sitting with it. he starts to stand, knees pushing up, trying to pull away and put space between you again like he does when the emotions get too close, he’s retreating, moving, and controlling what he still can. but you react fast, arms sliding quick around his leg, hugging it tight to your chest, cheek pressing to the rough denim of his jeans as you hold on.
he freezes mid motion, then slowly sinks back down onto the edge of the bed with a low exhale, not fighting your hold but not relaxing into it either. his hand finally moves, resting heavy on the top of your head for a brief second before dropping to his thigh instead, fingers flexing restless.
“i’m sorry andrew,” you murmur against his leg. “you’re right. just please…” you pause, sighing soft and shaky against his jeans, breath warm through the denim. “stop ignoring me, stop doing this to me. i’m sorry, i fucked up.” you whisperer.
pope doesn’t answer right away. he lets the quiet do most of the talking for now, his jaw tight, eyes staring down at the floor now instead of the wall. his free hand rubs slow over his own knee, calloused thumb pressing hard like he’s grounding himself.
after another long set of seconds he finally speaks, voice low and rough, barely above a mutter. “yeah. you did.” he replied, simple, and direct, no sugar on it. he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “i don’t know how to just… turn that off. the not trusting part. not after you hid it.” he admits, truthfully.
he doesn’t pull his leg away from your arms, but he doesn’t reach down to hold you closer either. instead he stays seated, shoulders still hunched forward, one hand now resting light on your shoulder, almost reluctant, like touching you hurts as much as it helps.
his thumb brushes once, absent, against your shirt, the smallest crack in the wall he’s built since finding out about you and baz. the silence creeps back in, but it feels a fraction less punishing now, his presence solid and warm under your cheek while you cling there on your knees, the weight of your secret pressing heavier with every passing minute you don’t tell him.
you nod slow, accepting his short words even though they sting, and tilt your head up to look at him. your eyes meet his for a real moment, those dark, and intense eyes locking onto yours, guarded but not completely closed off.
you sigh soft, breath warm against his jeans. “i didn’t hide it,” you whisper, voice cracking just a little. “i just didn’t know how to tell you. i wasn’t gonna keep it away from you forever. i would never.” you admitted as you search his face while you speak, eyes tracing the tight line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, looking for any sign he believes you.
he listens, thumb still brushing slow and absent against your shoulder, his own gaze steady on yours like he’s weighing every word. his mouth opens just a fraction, maybe to say something more, but before he can, the front door creaks open down the hall. smurf’s voice cuts through the house sharp and unmistakable, echoing off the walls in that commanding way she has, calling out for him, something about family business, her tone leaving no room for waiting.
you pause mid breath, the moment shattering. you lean back slow until your spine presses flat against the wall to let him go tend to her, arms slipping completely off his leg, grip gone as the real world crashes back in. pope’s shoulders tense instantly at his mother’s voice, that familiar pull of family duty kicking in hard. 
he stands up without a word, towering over you for a second as he steps around your curled form on the floor. his hand brushes the top of your head once, light, almost automatic, before he walks out of the bedroom, bare feet quiet down the hall toward smurf’s voice, leaving you there alone with the broken door and the heavy silence settling again.
the pregnancy feels louder in the empty room now, your hands moving instinctively to rest low on your stomach for a brief second before you pull them away, heart still racing from the almost conversation that got cut short.
pope doesn’t come back for hours. the house stays mostly quiet after smurf’s visit, her voice fading out the door with whatever family pull dragged him away earlier. you stay in the bedroom as the night drags on, past midnight now, the broken door still hanging crooked on its hinges like a reminder.
the tv flickers soft blue light across the walls, some late night rerun playing low that you’re barely watching. your arms stay wrapped loose around yourself, hugging your own ribs as you sit propped against the headboard, legs tucked under the covers.
loneliness sits heavy in your chest, a deep ache that makes it hard to breathe right. you feel so heartbroken, the kind that hollows you out, barely able to get through to pope no matter how you try, his silence like a wall you keep slamming into. and underneath it all, the secret pregnancy presses on you harder in the quiet, making everything feel more fragile, more terrifying alone.
the front door finally opens and closes somewhere in the house, heavy footsteps you know by heart. you don’t move much, just sit there. pope walks into the bedroom a minute later, the low tv glow catching the tired lines on his face. you glance over at him quick, eyes tracing his frame for a second, then look away, staring at the screen instead.
he doesn’t say anything, there’s no greeting, no acknowledgment of the long silence between you. he just peels his shirt off over his head, muscles shifting under scarred skin as he tosses it toward the chair in the corner. his jeans come next, belt buckle clinking soft before he steps out of them, leaving him in just his boxers, the fabric hanging low on his hips.
he climbs into bed on his side without a word, the mattress dipping under his weight. his back turns to you immediately, broad and tense, like the space between your bodies is deliberate.
he doesn’t comment on the tv, doesn’t ask what you’re watching, doesn’t even sigh loud. just settles in, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting along his side. still ignoring you it felt like, the silent treatment stretches on, thick and exhausting after the whole day.
you don’t say anything either. the words feel stuck somewhere deep, too raw to force out again tonight. you reach for the remote slow, clicking the tv off so the room drops into darkness broken only by the faint streetlight slipping through the blinds. then you slide down under the covers, turning onto your side facing away from him, limbs and body carefully not touching his.
you curl tight into a ball, knees drawn up, arms hugging your pillow close to your chest like it might hold you together. your forehead presses into the cool fabric, eyes stinging in the dark as the loneliness settles deeper. pope stays still on his side, back to you, the space between your bodies feeling miles wide even though he’s right there. the house is quiet again, just the two of you and all the unsaid things weighing down the bed.
pope stayed asleep when you wake up around three in the morning, the room still dark except for the faint glow of a streetlight bleeding through the blinds. you lie there for a minute staring at the wall, eyes tracing the same crack in the paint over and over, the loneliness from earlier still sitting heavy in your chest along with the secret you’re carrying.
carefully, so carefully, you slip out from under the covers, bare feet quiet on the floor as you avoid the creaky board near the bed. you don’t want to wake him, not after the long day of silence.
you pad out of the bedroom and settle by the window in the living room, pulling a thin throw blanket around your shoulders as you sit on the wide sill. outside the streets are empty and dark, just the occasional distant car light cutting through the quiet neighborhood.
you watch them flicker by, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your legs, mind spinning slow with heartbreak and exhaustion. your body tired but your thoughts refusing to settle.
pope wakes not long after, the empty spot beside him pulling him out of sleep in that instinctive way he has. he doesn’t make a fuss about it though, he did no calling out, no loud movement. he just sits up slow, rubbing a hand over his face, then swings his legs out of bed in his boxers and walks through the broken doorway.
he finds you by the window, pausing first in the doorway for a long moment, taking in the scene of you curled small on the sill, blanket draped loose, staring out into nothing, and something tightens in his chest. he comes over quiet, bare feet soft on the wood, and stands beside you, shoulder close but not touching you.
his eyes drift out the window first, following the same dark streets, then drop down to the back of your head, gaze lingering on the messy strands of your hair. “you should be asleep,” he tells you, voice low and rough from sleep. you don’t look at him right away. “i’ll sleep on the couch,” you murmur, the words flat.
silence falls between you again, thick and heavy. your head dips down after a minute, shoulders curling in as quiet sniffling breaks the quiet. “i’m sorry, pope,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on his name.
he doesn’t know you’re crying until he catches the reflection in the glass. your face wet, eyes shining, tears slipping down your cheeks. he pauses, jaw working once, then sits in that long silence with you, the two of you wrapped in the dark. after a second he offers his hand, palm up, calloused and steady rather than more words. “c’mon.” he said.
you shake your head slow, gently pushing his hand back toward himself. “go to bed pope,” you say gently, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand, eyes dropping to stare at the floor now instead of the street.
he lets his hand fall but doesn’t move away. he just stands there nearby, solid and quiet in the dark, a quiet presence that doesn’t leave. “i’m not leaving you out here by yourself,” he says after a moment, voice low.
“why?” you ask, the words slipping out tired and hurt. “i lied to you. you’ve been ignoring me all day. why do you need me now?” you questioned.
pope stays quiet for another long pause, the kind that feels like he’s turning the question over in his head, fighting with himself the way he always does. “i don’t know how to do this right,” he admits finally, rough and honest. “i just know i don’t want you sitting here alone.” he said to you.
the silence settles again after that, softer this time. you stay silent for a good solid twenty seconds after his words, the quiet stretching long between you, only broken by the distant hum of a car passing somewhere down the block. your eyes stay fixed on the ground, tears drying slow on your cheeks.
then you speak up, voice small and tired, barely cutting through the night. “what’s the difference? i’m gonna be alone in bed too.” you say it staring at the ground still, fingers picking absently at the edge of the blanket.
pope doesn’t answer right away, pausing and letting it hang there while he processes, jaw tight as he stares out the window for a second before his gaze drops back down to you. he shifts his weight, one hand resting on the windowsill near your shoulder, close but not touching.
his voice comes low and rough when he finally speaks, honest in that stripped down way he gets when he’s trying. “difference is… i’m right here now. even if i’m mad. even if i don’t know how to fix it yet.” he said as he then exhales slow, thumb tapping once against the wood.
“i don’t do alone when it comes to you. not like this. not when you’re sitting out here cryin’ at three in the mornin’.” he said. you swallow hard against the lump in your throat as you push yourself up from the windowsill. the throw blanket slips off your shoulders and stays behind on the sill, forgotten.
you nod once, small and tired, but you don’t meet pope’s eyes, keeping your gaze fixed somewhere near his chest instead. the floor feels cold under your bare feet as you walk back down the hall to the bedroom, shoulders hunched like the weight of the night is pressing down harder with every step.
you crawl back into bed on your side, facing the wall, curling up small under the covers again. the sheets are still warm from where you’d been earlier but they do nothing to chase the chill sitting deep in your bones.
a moment later the mattress dips heavy behind you. he’s followed you in quiet, no words, no sigh, just the solid shift of his body settling on his side of the bed. his back stays turned to you once more, the space between your bodies careful and untouched.
you stay curled on your side, eyes open staring at the faint crack in the wall, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing behind you. the loneliness lingers thick even with him right there, pope doesn’t reach out, doesn’t speak, just lies there in the silence he’s chosen for now.
you lie there for a few more minutes, the silence and the space between you feeling unbearable, something inside you shifts, loneliness winning over the fear of rejection.
you get up slow, the mattress barely creaking as you crawl carefully over to his side of the bed. pope stirs a little but doesn’t turn, you reach for him gentle, hands pressing light against his shoulder and side as you guide him onto his back. he lets you, body heavy and compliant in the dark even if his muscles stay tense under your palms, breath catching once like he’s deciding whether to stop you or not.
once he’s flat you climb on top of him, settling your weight careful across his chest and hips, legs straddling loose on either side of him. your arms wrap around his torso tight, face pressing into the warm crook of his neck, breathing him in as you cling there like he might disappear if you let go.
your body molds against his, seeking the comfort you’ve been missing all day, heart hammering hard against his skin. pope tenses at first, the wall of his snapping up quick, shoulders rigid, one hand hovering uncertain near your back like he’s fighting the instinct to push you away or pull you closer.
his breathing stays measured, controlled, the quiet anger and hurt still simmering underneath. but after a long couple of seconds his arm finally comes down, heavy and slow, wrapping around your waist in a loose hold. not full forgiveness, not soft words whispered in the dark either, just the solid press of his palm against your lower back, fingers splaying wide like he’s anchoring you there even while he’s still mad.
he doesn’t speak, his jaw stays tight against the top of your head, the way his other hand eventually rests on your thigh, thumb brushing once, absent and reluctant. his body stays warm and solid beneath you, heart beating steady under your cheek, but the tension doesn’t fully leave him.
he holds you in the dark, protective even when he’s hurting, loyal even when trust is cracked, letting you cling without pushing you off. his free hand eventually finds its way into your hair, fingers threading careful through the strands in that rare gentle way he has when words fail him, just existing there with you while the early morning hours drag on.
you wake slowly to the feeling of pope moving you off him, his hands gentle but firm as he shifts your body back onto your side of the bed. the morning light filters weak through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the room. you don’t say anything, just blink awake and watch him through half lidded eyes as he sits up, runs a hand over his face, and stands. he walks to the bathroom without a word.
you lie there for a moment longer, heart heavy, then push yourself up slow. you don’t want to scare him off or push too hard after last night, so you move careful, padding quietly across the floor.
when you reach the bathroom doorway you pause, watching him at the sink already brushing his teeth, broad back to you, muscles shifting under his skin as he moves the toothbrush in steady strokes. you slip inside, grabbing your own toothbrush from the holder, squeezing toothpaste onto the bristles before joining him at the sink.
the two of you stand side by side in silence, the only sounds the soft scrubbing of bristles and water running from the faucet. you don’t say much, barely anything at all, just the occasional glance when he isn’t looking your way, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the way his curls fall messy from sleep. your stomach twist a little with the minty taste, but you keep brushing, clinging to this small shared space.
after a bit you slowly approach closer, your fingers brushing light against his where his hand rests near the sink, a tentative reach for connection. pope moves his hand away gentle but clear, pulling it back to keep brushing without meeting your eyes.
you pause, breath catching, and look up at him. when he still doesn’t turn you look down at the ground, backing away a step or two, hurt flickering across your face as you continue brushing your teeth in the heavy quiet.
silence settles thick between you for a good minute, the air thick with everything still unsaid. pope eventually spits out the toothpaste, leaning forward, then cups his hands under the running water, bringing them to his mouth to swish and rinse. he wipes his mouth with the damp back of his hand, movements precise and controlled like always.
you watch him the whole time, eyes fragile and pleading even if you don’t speak, silently begging for something as small as him holding your hand or reaching back.
he doesn’t give it to you. he just finishes rinsing, turns the faucet off, and stands there a second longer staring at his own reflection before stepping back from the sink, still wrapped in that quiet distance, leaving you standing there with your toothbrush and the ache of another morning spent in his silence.
pope finishes at the sink and leaves the bathroom without a word, bare feet quiet as he walks out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. you stand there a second longer, the sting in your eyes finally breaking.
a couple quiet tears slip down your cheeks as you lean over the sink, spitting out the toothpaste, the mint mixing bitter with the salt on your tongue. you rinse your mouth thorough, cupping water to splash away the last of it, then wipe the residue from your lips with the back of your hand. you dry your wet mouth off on the hem of your shirt, the fabric catching the tears too, before you step out of the bathroom and follow him down the hall.
you stop at the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the frame, arms wrapped loose around yourself as you watch him. his back is to you, broad and tense under the thin t shirt he pulled on, standing at the stove flipping something in a pan, eggs maybe, or whatever simple breakfast he’s making on autopilot.
the smell of food hits you and your stomach twists, a reminder of the secret you’ve been carrying alone for too long. you sigh soft, the decision settling heavy but necessary. “pope,” you say, voice barely carrying across the small kitchen.
he doesn’t reply, doesn’t turn either, he just keeps moving the spatula like he didn’t hear you, shoulders rigid. “i’m pregnant.” you said.
the words land in the quiet like a stone dropping into still water. pope slowly goes to a stop, spatula freezing mid motion over the pan. for a long second the only sound is the faint sizzle of food on the heat. then he turns his head over his shoulder, looking at you with those sharp, intense eyes, wide now with shock that he doesn’t bother hiding.
his jaw tightens, brows pulling together as he processes, the protectiveness already flashing across his face even through the lingering hurt from your lie about baz.
he sets the spatula down careful, turning the stove off with a quick twist of the knob before fully facing you. his hand grips the edge of the counter like he needs something solid to hold onto.
“you’re… pregnant,” he repeats, voice low and rough, almost disbelieving. he stares at you hard, searching your face, taking in the tears still drying on your cheeks, the way you’re holding yourself.
he wasn’t exploding with news like this, he was internalizing it first, the weight of it hitting him deep because family means everything, even when it’s messy and broken. “how long?” he asks after another second, direct and quiet, stepping half a pace closer but still keeping the counter between you.
there’s no anger in his tone right now, just that raw intensity mixed with something heavier, worry, maybe even a flicker of that protective instinct kicking in hard. his eyes drop for a second to your stomach, hidden under your shirt, before flicking back up to your face. “and you didn’t tell me. with everything else…” he trails off, rubbing a hand over his jaw, the muscle there jumping as he fights to keep control.
he doesn’t yell, doesn’t walk away, he just stands there looking at you like the ground shifted under both of you, the breakfast forgotten and cooling on the stove while the silence waits for whatever comes next.
you go silent for a long moment after his question, taking in the weight of his words, the quiet complaint sitting between you. your eyes drop to the floor, shoulders curling in as the guilt washes over you again, fresh and sharp, making your chest feel tight. you already feel bad enough about yourself, the lie about baz mixing now with hiding the pregnancy.
“i already told you i’m sorry,” you say, voice fragile and thin, barely holding together. “how much more do you need?” you swallow hard. “i don’t know how long. i found out a week ago.” you admit.
pope doesn’t move at first. he just absorbs it, jaw working tight as he stares at you, the news settling deep in that intense way he processes everything important. family. a baby, his baby. he rubs a hand over his mouth, exhaling slow through his nose, then steps around the counter finally, closing some of the distance but not all of it.
“a week,” he repeats, low and rough, like he’s turning the timeline over in his head. there’s no explosion, no raised voice, just that quiet intensity that makes the kitchen feel smaller. his eyes flick down to your stomach again, something protective and almost pained flashing across his face before he looks back up.
“you found out a week ago and you kept it to yourself. while i was shutting you out over baz. while you were lettin’ me think…” he trails off, shaking his head once, short and frustrated with himself as much as with you.
he leans back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, but his stance isn’t closed off completely. “i’m not sayin’ i don’t need the sorry. i do. trust is… it’s everything with me. you know that.” his voice drops quieter, rougher.
“but a kid? that’s different. that’s ours. you should’ve told me the second you knew. no matter how mad i was.” he said as he pushed off the counter then, stepping closer until he’s right in front of you. one hand lifts slow, hesitant, and rests careful on your upper arm, thumb brushing once against your skin, the first real touch since the silence started that isn’t pulled away.
his eyes search your face again, softer around the edges now even if the hurt is still there. “you okay?” he asks, direct and simple, the protectiveness winning out a little. “physically. the baby… everything alright?” he asked. he doesn’t pull you into a hug, not yet, but he doesn’t step back either, standing there solid in the quiet kitchen while the weight of fatherhood starts sinking in alongside everything else.
you stare up at his eyes for a long moment, searching those intense dark depths that always see too much and not enough at the same time. then your gaze drops back down to the floor, shoulders slumping a little more under the weight of guilt that keeps piling on.
the way he only asked about the baby, stings in a quiet way, making you feel a bit unloved in this moment, like the emotional wreck you’ve been carrying alone doesn’t register the same as the practical side of things.
he stays quiet for a second, watching you closely the way he does when he’s trying to read between the lines of someone he cares about. his hand doesn’t leave your arm. instead his grip shifts, sliding up to your shoulder, fingers pressing firmer like he can feel the way you’re curling in on yourself.
he exhales slow through his nose, jaw tight as he processes not just the pregnancy but the look on your face right now.
“hey,” he says low, voice rough but not cold. he ducks his head a little, trying to catch your eyes even as you stare at the ground. “look at me.” he said but when you don’t right away he steps in closer, his other hand coming up to gently tilt your chin with two fingers, guiding your face back up until your eyes meet his again.
there’s that familiar intensity there, the protectiveness mixed with the lingering hurt, but something else too, worry that runs deeper than just the physical.
“i’m askin’ because i need to know you’re both okay,” he mutters, thumb brushing along your jaw now, calloused and careful. “but i see you. you think i don’t?” his brow furrows, that slight tic in his jaw showing as he struggles with the words the way he always does. “this ain’t just about the baby. you’ve been carryin’ this shit alone while i was in my own head. that’s not nothin’.” he said.
he pauses, swallowing hard, then pulls you in slow until your forehead rests against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in that solid, grounding hold he gives when words feel too clumsy.
it’s not full forgiveness, not yetc, the hurt over baz still sits there between you, but the pregnancy shifts something in him, that deep instinct to protect what’s his kicking in strong. one hand rubs slow up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
“we’ll figure the rest out,” he says against your hair, voice low and steady. “but you ain’t alone in this. not anymore.” he holds you there in the quiet kitchen, breakfast long forgotten, letting the silence settle softer this time while his body stays warm and steady against yours.
you hug him back tightly, arms wrapping around his waist and squeezing like letting go might break whatever fragile bridge is forming between you again. your face presses into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him; soap, faint motor oil, home.
“m’okay,” you whisper against his shirt, voice small and shaky but honest in the moment. you lean up on your toes, lips brushing soft and slow against the side of his neck, a gentle kiss that lingers there, desperate for closeness after so many days of distance.
you hold onto him harder, fingers clutching the fabric of his t shirt at his back, scared he’ll pull away and slip back into that heavy silence that’s been crushing you. your body stays pressed flush to his, heart beating fast against his chest while the pregnancy secret finally being out there makes everything feel both lighter.
pope doesn’t pull away. his arms stay locked around you, one hand still rubbing slow circles on your back, the other cradling the back of your head with careful fingers threading through your hair. he tenses for half a second at the kiss on his neck, the control of his kicking in, but then he exhales long and low, chin resting on top of your head.
“good,” he murmurs rough against your hair, the word simple but carrying weight. he doesn’t say much more, doesn’t suddenly pour out forgiveness or promises, but he holds you there in the kitchen, solid and steady, his body a quiet anchor while the morning light grows brighter through the window. the hurt over your lie about baz still lingers in the stiffness of his shoulders, but the news of the baby keeps him grounded here with you.
notes. this is my first post into the animal kingdom fandom! i have no clue if it’s still active but i love pope so much. he’s such a comfort character for me :’) enjoy enjoy enjoy ! ! !
