Sometimes, at night, Pope lets his mind race through all the things he'll never get to do. He'll never be a dad again, never take that trip to Europe he'd always planned, never drive the limited edition Harley he'd wanted, never be in love again. Not that that had been great the first time, and looking round him at the Berserkers and his bar, for a brief second he lets himself consider that he'll never be alone again. It's a stupid dream, the Berserkers will die, the Espheni will fall on them like locusts and the last dregs of human kind will wash away like so much blood down the drain; The eternal optimism of the Weaver-Mason coalition be damned.
See Pope knows, better than anyone, that he fucked himself when he met Mason. Should have put a bullet in his brain right then and there, cause years later and Mason is still here. Still eating his way into Popes life like a damned fungus. Bringing his sentiment, and his hope, and his 'forgiveness' with him like a plague.
He likes to imagine all the things he'll never get to do to Mason too, sometimes he pictures him, all shocked and betrayed, a neat little 9mm hole right between his god awful doe brown eyes, mouth opened wide in a little mew of surprised betrayal. The sense of satisfaction that rolls through him is only vaguely tinged with guilt. Other times he mulls over more childish schemes, maybe a few words whispered in the right ears about just how 'close' the commander in chief and his best Volm buddy really are behind closed doors... the violent blushes, stuttered denials and utter horror would be damn nice to watch. He can just imagine the tips of his ears going bright red, that fat mouth blundering through refusals so stuttered, he'd tie the gossip noose all by himself.
Late, late at night, like now, when even Tector and Ben have hit the hay, and he's left to wipe down the bar himself before bed, every now and then he likes to imagine Mason here; on his turf, in his den. Likes to imagine he'd come storming through the door, snibbing it behind him even in his rage, Pope likes to think he's done something irritating enough to bring the chief down to the bowels of the city, but it's just as pleasing to imagine other reasons... maybe he's just found out about Ben fucking his sniper elite, wouldn't that be just beau-ti-ful! All self righteous rage, decorum gone out the window in the face of the Berserkers audacity to sully the prince of the realm... no matter that Ben's made it more than obvious who belongs to whom in that fucked up atrocity of a relationship. It does after all, make Pope utterly gleeful to threaten breaking the news to the razorbacks father every time he decides to be a little shit in the pub. But no... it's not quite right... Mason wouldn't come here for that... it would have to be something Pope did. Nothing to get him arrested... that would just bring Weaver... no... something so devilishly enraging Mason would have to come personally, and privately, shrouded in his rage.
He'd come through the door quietly, snibbing it securely behind him, coiled anger poised to leap out and burn... Being himself, he'd push, poke, prod till that dam burst and Mason snapped... maybe he'd shove him, get up in his face, either way, it would be the perfect opportunity. Mason was incandescent in his rage when he let it loose, positively glowed. He'd swing for him and Pope would have no choice but to throw him back against the wall, maybe pin him there, chest to chest, arm across his throat. Perfectly poised to close the distance and silence that fucking mouth for a fraction of a second. He could imagine it now, Mason would make a noise like something wet had gone down his shirt, maybe struggle a bit, but if Pope pushed, and how could he 'not'?! He could just imagine the deep, painful, breathy sound he'd make as he gave in. He'd kiss him till his knees went weak, and just as they were ready to give he'd use his whole body, minutely shorter, but just as broad, to hold the man to the wall flush from lips to knees until he 'burned'!
Licking his lips and tossing the dish rag in the sink he pondered gleefully. Yup, it would take something special indeed.