Andrew "Pope" Cody

Pope came back into the living room after checking on Lena, pulling her bedroom door mostly closed behind him. He remained there for a moment, listening to make sure she had settled again. She had been having a difficult time tonight, and even after getting her back to sleep, he had stood outside her room longer than necessary, as if he could somehow keep anything else from happening to her.

Eventually, he turned away and walked back into the living room.

The television was playing quietly, throwing shifting light across the room. Pope barely looked at it as he lowered himself onto the couch. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dragged both hands down his face.

He looked exhausted.

His hair was slightly disheveled, dark stubble covered his jaw, and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. Between taking care of Lena, dealing with his brothers, worrying about his mother, and trying to piece together who had killed Baz, he had barely had a moment where he wasn't carrying someone else's problems around in his head.

Tonight, Lena had woken up upset. She had been dreaming about Baz again.

Pope hadn't known what to say when she started crying. He had sat beside her bed and stayed there until she calmed down, answering her questions as honestly as he could without giving her more than she needed to hear. He had told her that it was okay to miss her dad. He had told her that Baz had loved her.

He hadn't told her that he missed him too. Nor had he told her that he was responsible for part of that loss. There was no way that he would ever let Lena find out that he was the one who killed her mother.

Baz knowing had already been more than enough. The guilt of it was something Pope carried alone.

He thought about it more than he would ever admit.

His gaze drifted toward the floor, and before he could stop it, his mind went somewhere else.

Back to Catherine.

He could still remember the night with a clarity that made his stomach turn. The confrontation had started with the money, with the suitcases, with the things she had been hiding and the plans she had made to leave. She had been preparing to run, to take Lena and disappear, and Pope had confronted her because his mother had convinced him she was betraying the family. He truly believed it, or at least... he did at the time.

But the money never stayed with the argument.

It always went somewhere else.

He remembered being close to her. The warmth of her body against his. The way she had undressed them slowly and trailed her lips down his neck. He remembered the strange intimacy of the moment, and the way she had held him close as though she could make him believe that what existed between them was real. He remembered the quiet words she had whispered to him, telling him that she loved him.

He knew that she had been trying to calm him down. She had been frightened and desperate, and those words had been an attempt to reach whatever part of him that would listen.

"I love you too," he had whispered back.

The memory lingered. The moment he faltered, the moment he hesitated after speaking those words.

Then came the pillow.

The weight of it in his hands. Catherine struggling beneath him. Her muffled cries and her attempts to gasp for air. The horrible understanding of what he was doing and the inability to stop himself. The way his own body shook and the pained sounds he let out as he held her down.

And then there was Lena.

Her daughter was still there. Still innocent. Still asleep nearby, completely unaware that Pope had just taken her mother away from her.

Pope's breathing had become shallow without him noticing.

He blinked.

The television came back into focus. The living room came back into focus. His hands clenched into fists.

For a moment, he simply stared at the floor between his boots, as though trying to convince himself that he was here and not back there.

After a long silence, he finally spoke.

"She's back asleep."

His voice was low and rough. He rubbed his thumb slowly against his palm.

"She had a nightmare." he paused. "...about Baz."

His jaw tightened slightly as he looked toward the television.

"She didn't want me to leave."

There was something almost embarrassed about the way he said it, as though admitting that Lena needed him was somehow more difficult than admitting that he needed her. His gaze settled somewhere beyond the television, his expression becoming distant.

"I didn't know what to say."

He had never been good with things he couldn't fix. A robbery could be planned. A threat could be dealt with. A person causing a problem could be confronted. Grief didn't work that way. Neither did a child who had lost both of her parents within the span of a year.

There was something different in his expression now. He still looked guarded, but beneath it was exhaustion and an uncertainty he rarely allowed anyone to see.

"I don't know how to do this."

The admission was quiet enough that it almost sounded like he hadn't intended to say it.

His gaze dropped back to his hands.

"I don't know how to take care of her."

Pope leaned forward again, his forearms resting against his knees.

"I keep thinking I'm supposed to know what to do."

He paused, searching for the words.

"She's just a kid. She shouldn't have to deal with any of this."

He sat still for a moment before letting out a slow exhale, rubbing a hand over his face again. He looked like he wanted to shut the entire conversation down, to put the walls back where they belonged.

But he didn't.

He didn't have the energy for that right now.