Work Text:
Pope loved watching you get ready. Loved the way your nails (manicured on his dime, of course) raked through your chestnut curls, loved the way your mouth parted when you applied mascara, loved the tilt of your head as you clipped your hoops into your ears and the way your perfume gathered into small droplets as your spritzed it onto your arms and neck.
Yes, Pope loved watching you get ready- which meant he didn’t mind how long it took. 1 hour ago, you were 10 minutes away from being ready. He didn’t mind, except for the fact he was starving.
“Where are you going?”
“M’hungry,” He grunted. Pope rolled off the bed and slinked up behind you, stuffing his nose into your hair and taking in a deep sniff of your leave-in conditioner. “Want anything?”
“Hey. Hey! Don’t ruin my curls. And I’m almost ready,” Doubtful, he thought: “So don’t eat too much. My mom’ll be pissed if you don’t eat, like, ten plates of food.”
Pope placed a kiss on your temple despite your feigned insistence you didn’t want him to do so. Then he disappeared to the kitchen, where he rummaged around for the next four minutes while you truly did finish getting ready. You finished your makeup and pulled on the first family-appropriate dress you could find in your closet, then left to join him in the kitchen.
“You’re making us late Pope, hurry- what are you eating?”
Your boyfriend turned from where he was silhouetted by the microwave light, a rolled up tortilla in hand. He chewed slowly, looking you up and down with furrowed brows.
“Chips.”
Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. In four quick strides you reached him and snatched his plate off the counter, and into your hands, scoffing immediately.
“Pope, what is this!”
His browbone remained creased, looking from you, to the plate, to you. “My food.”
“Why are you eating this?! It’s,” You popped one into your mouth, sounding off with an indignant exclamation once more at the taste. “Valentina, lemon, maggi- Pope, why are you eating this? I’ve never shown you this.”
“I grew up eating this. S’messy, but-”
“You’re so full of it. This is some seriously Mexican shit.”
“Well,” Pope shrugged, letting you continue eating his snack without any complaint. “Yeah, makes sense.”
You stopped chewing. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” His shoulders raised and shrugged, surprisingly meek for a man of his build. “I’m Mexican.”
It was a good thing you finished chewing when he said, because your jaw nearly dropped to the floor and Pope would’ve hated the sight of chewed up food in your mouth. Not once had he ever mentioned this sudden Mexican heritage; were it not for the familiar food you now held a plate of in your hand, you wouldn't believe him.
“What, you couldn’t tell from lookin’ at me?” Pope asked, a small smirk lifting his features.
“Andrew,” The dam burst, the empty plate getting chucked into the sink. “That’s not funny. I’ve known you for five months. We’ve been dating for two- you’re about to meet my family! Why wouldn’t you tell me that?!”
He blinked. Stared, took sixteen seconds to think over his response. Then: “Never came up.”
“Never came- never came up?! I’m Mexican, Pope, the fuck it ‘never came up’!”
“You never asked,” He said. Clearly, Pope was enjoying this far too much, unable to wipe that smug, shit-eating grin off his stupid, freckled face. You grabbed your purse by the handles and smacked his broad shoulder with it, which only caused his earlier smirk to return. He snatched it from your hands with ease and took one step towards you, head cast downward to meet your eye. “I’ve always understood what you’re saying about me to your cousins.”
“Good,” You shoved him off of you and stormed to the door, remembering all the times you vented to family and friends about Pope on Facetime. It was a love language- you couldn’t love someone unless you were willing to be annoyed by them sometimes, right? “I should’ve been meaner.”
“I was talking about what you told your cousin the first time we-”
“Finish that sentence and I’m murdering you.”