Work Text:
Pope wakes up with his body drenched in sweat, his heart hammering behind his ribs like a caged animal.
It had been quite some time since he thought about Smurf, the barrel of her gun, and her hysterical demands to shoot her.
But it's always the same: he stands in the desert with Smurf — in this version, his brothers aren't with him. Smurf points her gun at him, demanding that he point his and shoot her at the same time. I'm all you've got, but the sticky sweet tone is replaced with something guttural and angry. We die together, Andrew.
And then she fires at him and all Pope can hear is the ringing.
He has the horrid taste of pennies in his mouth, iron and wet.
His vision is dark, his throat burns like he's been screaming — God, how long has he been screaming? — but all he can hear is the fire of the gun and the ringing.
He feels like he's drowning now and suddenly, he doesn't remember how to swim. He spent his whole life around water but his limbs are heavy and he has no idea what to do with them.
Shoot me, Andrew! He hears it over and over: shoot me, shoot me, shoot me.
He's up with a jolt, hands fumbling until they find the lamp at the bedside. His eyes dart back and forth across the room: vanity, bookcase, desk. He repeats these things until he remembers where he is.
Samira's bedroom.
Tears well in Pope's eyes and for a moment, he's a child again, ridiculed and belittled for his attachment to Smurf. All he can do is think no, no, no. Why now? Being okay with leaving Oceanside was painstaking. He spent years believing nobody outside of his family cared for him and sometimes even that felt conditional. Without the Cody legacy, who was he?
Pennsylvania was a fresh start. He crawled his way to the other side of the country and spent literal months looking at his own reflection, telling himself he deserved to escape. He didn't need to die with Smurf, he was also allowed a life of his own.
So why the sudden spike in his anxiety? Why were the feelings of guilt and betrayal gnawing on his bones? Samira looks at him like he hung the moon on a string and he has the audacity to regress?
He looked Deran in the eyes and told him to live for himself. Why couldn't he do the same? He was being crushed under the weight of something he could not name, he could feel knots forming in his chest.
It hurt to breathe.
"Andy?" Samira's voice complains from his left, sleepy. "Andy, the sun's not even up yet." Silence.
Pope shakes his head. He doesn't trust what his voice will do if he tries to speak.
Samira shifts and sits up with him. Delicate fingers graze his wrist and then Pope turns, too sharp and sudden, eyes wide and unfocused. Even in the low light, Samira can see that Pope, her Andy, is somewhere far away.
"Hey, hey, hey. Andy, look at me." She took Pope's face in her hands. His hands move to cover hers, desperate to cling to something but his eyes are still unfocused. "Andy," she calls, tone gentle but firm. "Please look at me." When he does, the quick and erratic breaths slowly even out. Samira's thumb brushes against his cheek, sweeping away tears.
"I—," Pope cuts himself off. He doesn't want to say anything and he feels stupid and childish for it. He clasps a hand over his mouth, as if to keep the fear and guilt inside, as if they might pour out and taint the way Samira looks at him. There has never been a moment where Samira made him feel judged, not once in all the time they've spent together. But to say any of it felt burdensome and Pope did not want all of his eccentricities, the strange ways in which his mind works, to become a burden on another person he loves.
"It's okay," she says softly and Pope's face crumples at the gentleness of it. She keeps her palms on his face, letting him feel the warmth of her skin and the press of her thumbs on his cheekbones.
His breathing starts coming in broken pulls again. quick and shallow. Pope's throat works and he swallows hard as he tries to open his mouth only to shut it. Shame moves through his face and Samira's face softens.
"You don't have to talk," she whispers. "Can you look at me, though?" His eyes snap back to hers and she gives him a soft smile. "There you go, I've got you. You're with me, Andy. You're in my room."
Pope shakes his head sharply, like he cannot accept the words Samira is offering.
"I know." Samira knew better than to argue or reason with a panic attack. "I know it feels real, I'm sorry. I know."
His breathing breaks on something close to a sob. He doesn't want to think about how pathetic and lost he must look under the yellow wash of her bedside lamp, he already feels small. The wet feeling on the back of his neck and the way his curls stick to his forehead become a sensory nightmare, even his clothes feel wrong against his skin. The only real, grounding thing was the feel of her hands; they were the only thing that kept him from kicking everything off.
Samira shifts closer to him until her knees press firm against his thighs. She keeps one hand on his face and slowly, visibly, moves her hand to his chest, right over where his heart is beating wildly.
"Focus on my hand here," she says, tapping her fingers against his chest. "That's all I need you to do, okay? We don't have to talk about it, you don't have to explain anything. I just want you to feel me and breathe with me."
First inhale is ragged and he exhales too quickly. She merely nods and gets him to try again. He tries again, but it breaks the same way.
Samira nods. "Good. Again." A tear slips down his cheek and it catches against her thumb. "You're okay, you're doing it. It might not feel like it, but you are." She takes an exaggerated breath in, slow enough for him to follow, and then she exhales through her mouth. "Again. With me, Andy."
Pope takes another breath, slower this time. His fingers wrap around the wrist she has at his chest, trying to ease the tremors in his hands.
"I know, baby, I know." Pope's eyes soften at the endearment and she keeps going. "You're in my room. The lamp is on. It's a little windy outside so we closed the window. Your jacket's on my chair. Your boots are next to mine by the door."
His eyes move, slow and obedient. Lamp, window, chair, door.
"That's good," she whispers. "Can you say them back to me?"
His throat works and he lets out a shaky exhale. She doesn't press. "L-lamp," he says hoarsely. His gaze drifts. "Chair."
"That's good. Another one."
"Shoes."
She runs a hand through his hair, lightly scraping her nails against his scalp. "That's right." His breathing seems to catch a rhythm under her palm, still uneven but less frightened. She lets the silence sit there a moment, giving his brain a minute to catch up to his body, and then she moves both hands back to his face. "Andy, can I hold you?"
Pope looks at her like he does not understand the question.
So she asks him again. "Andy," her voice is softer. "Can I?"
Pope freezes for all of a second before giving her a small nod. He wants to feel her close but God he hates how childlike it feels. The moment Samira opens her arms, he folds. He falls into her in broken surrender, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. His hands curl into fists around the fabric of her shirt.
Samira wraps herself around him. One hand cradles the back of his head, the other runs along his back in slow, soothing passes. "I've got you," she whispers against his temple. "I've got you."
Pope chokes out a sob and he clings to her, like she can fix whatever is happening to him. She can make it all okay, he thinks. She fixes people, maybe she can fix all the broken things inside of him and pry Smurf's claws out of him.
"Let it out," she tells him. "It's okay, you can cry." His arms go around her waist then. "There you go, hold onto me. I'm right here."
His breath is hot against her neck. She can feel the aftershocks easing as the nightmare leaves his body.
Samira's heart aches for him. A young teenaged version of herself lost nights of sleep due to grief, replaying every less than kind conversation she ever had with her father. Nothing dulled the ache, she would just cry. She learned emptiness from a loss leaves never really shrinks, we learn to adapt and build around it. They didn't talk much about Pope's life before Pittsburgh, but she sort of guessed he was never given the room to grieve.
"My hand is in your hair. You're sitting in my bed." She presses her lips to his temple. "You're with me, you're safe."
He sags into her, his body heavy with exhaustion. But the relief that he doesn't have to hold himself upright and push through washes over him. Samira adjusts to the additional weight without complaint. She brings him back with her as she leans against the headboard, guiding him so that his cheek rests over her heart.
"Listen to my heartbeat," she says. She continues to move her hand slowly through his hair. She strokes her other hand along his forearm and smiles softly when she feels him relax under her. "You don't have to sleep. Just rest with me."
Pope swallows. When he finds his voice, it is barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
"Andy," she admonishes lightly but there is no heat or malice behind it. "You don't have to be sorry for a bad dream."
She presses her cheek to his head and for a long time, neither of them says anything else. She simply holds him through the fading tremors.
When she speaks again, her voice is low and certain.
"You're here, Andy. I've got you."