A/N: For BruAbba week day 3 prompt: first date.

All Hours

"So…are you doing anything later?"

Abbacchio's slow trudge grinds to a halt as he stops short. "What?" In his experience, that question has certain connotations – the type of connotations that are already putting butterflies in his stomach against his will.

Buccellati also pauses, a few steps in front of Abbacchio. The lines of his shoulders are tense under his suit, and his head is half-turned, not quite looking at Abbacchio but not quite facing forward either. "Later tonight," he says, and something about his voice is oddly hesitant, "are you…are you free?"

"You mean. After I wash all this blood off?" The quip slips out, but Abbacchio feels it's maybe justified, seeing as Buccellati is acting so strange. This can't be what Abbacchio thinks it is.

"I – suppose?" As he speaks, Buccellati turns a bit more to the side, and Abbacchio is absolutely sure he's seeing things, because there's no way that there is a real actual blush on Buccellati's cheeks right now. "I just. I was wondering if you wanted to…have dinner. With me."

…Oh.

Oh.

Well!

Abbacchio's heart is pretty much stopped now, eyes wide as he stares at Buccellati. This is – it can't be real, right? He's still on the concrete floor of that warehouse, bleeding out, in actuality, and this is some kind of oddball dying fever dream. That must be it.

But no: he can feel the side of his neck stinging beneath his palm, along with all the rest of the bruises and scrapes littering his body. So he's definitely awake right now, but….

They're walking a darkened back alley, both of them injured and worn from a simple reconnaissance job gone very, horribly wrong, limping their way home, and Buccellati is. Asking him out?

Not that Abbacchio isn't thrilled. Because he is.

It's just that his adrenaline fried brain is having trouble believing any of this is happening, even as he questions Buccellati's sense of timing.

"I'm, um, all…gross," Abbacchio says, giving himself a mental kick with every word that comes out. Enthusiastic agreement is what he had meant to respond with. In his defense, he had no idea that having the man he's been pining after ask him out so suddenly would throw him so off-kilter. (Although he should have suspected, but it's not like he saw this coming.)

Buccellati, for his part, looks a bit relieved that Abbacchio is saying anything at all. His cheeks are still flushed, though, visible even in the dim light of a back alley at night.

"I know this little family-owned place," Buccellati mutters, watching Abbacchio out of the corner of his eye, "they won't mind if we look a little rough."

Which, Abbacchio assumes, means they're used to mafia members at odd hours. Hell, maybe it's even run by the mafia. Who knows? Whatever the case, it's probably a dive of a place, most likely situated on a street even shadier than the one they're wandering now, and why the fuck does that matter at all what is he even doing still deliberating when Bruno Buccellati is asking him on a date.

Or, well, Abbacchio assumes that's what he's doing. It's what Abbacchio hopes he's doing.

"You mean…you're really…asking me on a…date?"

Buccellati's face meets his hands, but Abbacchio can still see the tip of one red ear peeking through his hair. It's endearing, but also alarming, because what if he's embarrassed because Abbacchio got his proposition entirely wrong? What if he just wanted to eat while they debriefed? What if…?

Just about ready to scramble to take his question back, Abbacchio is saved by Buccellati turning around to face him fully. Those hands fall away from his flushed face to clasp in front of him, and his blue eyes meet Abbacchio's gold.

"Yes," he says, "yes I'm…" here his eyes dart away, but only for a moment as he clears his throat, "asking you out."

Abbacchio's composure dissolves at that, and he goes stock still. So this is real. Something like elation spreads through his hollow chest. How can this be happening? By all accounts it doesn't add up. There's no reason Buccellati should reciprocate his feelings.

And…Abbacchio can't be the reason that Buccellati is looking all flustered tonight. That can't be right, can it? Because Buccellati is about as put together as Abbacchio feels right now (which is not very).

But what does Buccellati have to worry about? Does he think Abbacchio will turn him down?

No, Abbacchio is the only one with reason to doubt, here.

That's not to say he isn't thrilled, his heart is pounding and those damn butterflies are taking up permanent residence….

He stands there for probably too long, riddled with shock and insecurity as he stares, dumbfounded, at Buccellati.

"Abbacchio."

That sounds just the right side of imploring to snap Abbacchio out of it, and he blinks once (twice, three times). Apprehension is still clear on Buccellati's face, and Abbacchio isn't about to let it stay there.

"I'd love to," he says, stomach flipping. Everything feels so far away when Buccellati relaxes at his agreement, and Abbacchio suddenly finds it easy to forget that they're in a shitty back alley, and that he's bleeding from a bullet graze to the neck.

"Oh," a tiny smile breaks out on Buccellati's face, "good."

x

The restaurant, it turns out, is very much not the type of place that Abbacchio had been expecting. Which is a pleasant surprise (albeit not a surprise on the level of Buccellati asking him to dinner, but still).

It's a cozy little place, tucked away in a basement down a set of stairs down from the street. The homey atmosphere manages to be both warm and elegant, with refined yet comfortable antiques and soft golden lighting.

Regardless of what Buccellati says about them being welcome, Abbacchio immediately feels out of place. Both he and Buccellati are obviously fresh from trouble, with dirty clothes and bloody skin and messy hair.

Plus it's late. Pushed past midnight. Abbacchio has his doubts that they should even be in here, given that the place is empty – but just as he's thinking this, the owner emerges from the kitchen.

True to his word, Buccellati is on good terms with the plump, elderly woman, and she even fusses over him. Ushers them both into the bathroom to wash up while she fixes something special for dinner. God.

"Why do little old ladies love you so much?" Abbacchio asks, careful to keep his voice low as they cross the tiny restaurant towards the ornate bathroom door. (And it's a jibe more than a legitimate question. Everyone loves Buccellati because he's Buccellati, and that's that – Abbacchio has no trouble understanding.)

"Shh," Buccellati shushes him, even though there's no way the woman could have heard. "I think it's because I'm polite."

Abbacchio pretends to consider, loitering in front of the door as he tilts his head in mock thought. "Hm…more like because you keep the unsavory types away. And you make a good replacement son for their own shitty children."

At that, Buccellati raises an eyebrow. Leaning around Abbacchio, he pops open the bathroom door. "And what's wrong with that?"

"Absolutely nothing, damn you," Abbacchio says, fighting a losing battle against the wry grin that spreads over his face.

"To think," there's a playful lilt to Buccellati's voice, now, one that rarely emerges, and Abbacchio relishes in it, "I invited you because I enjoy your company…."

"I can't imagine why."

It's not even fully a joke, but it gets him shoved gently into the bathroom, regardless – and in the mirror he catches a flash of one of Buccellati's rare smiles. It charms Abbacchio so much, that he doesn't realize the potential mess he's getting into until Buccellati is closing the door behind them.

See, this bathroom is a tiny, closet-sized thing (the toilet is to their right; Abbacchio very much doubts he would be able to sit on it without his knees bumping the opposite wall), with crowded wallpaper and an ornate mirror over the sink. Standing in front of it as Abbacchio is, he can feel Buccellati's body heat close behind him, which sure is…cozy.

By way of a distraction, he gets to work on scrubbing the grime off of his hands. Buccellati nudges in on his left side to share the faucet, and oh great now Abbacchio's heart is doing funny things in his chest again.

He glances up at the both of them, side-by-side in the mirror, so close that their shoulders are brushing. They look pretty damn awful, to be honest – or, well, he does. Somehow Buccellati always manages to look good, even now, with dirt smudged over his face, a torn suit, a bruising cut on his cheek, and that loosened braid that's missing one of its clips.

For Abbacchio's part, well…once his makeup smudges he doesn't stand a chance. And it's more than smudged now, his hair is frizzed with fly-aways, and that cut on his neck is downright gnarly. There's also the blood trail left down his front, soaked into his shirt.

He averts his gaze in favor of reaching across Buccellati to grab the hand-towel, which Buccellati also piggybacks into using.

"Can you zip this up?" Abbacchio asks, gesturing to the side of his neck. The wound is deeper than it feels, and it's still oozing blood. Not a good look for a dinner date. (Date. His stomach still swoops at the word.)

Buccellati makes an affirmative noise, his fingers gently prodding at the skin beneath the cut as he leans in to inspect it. "I was going to do that earlier, but I want to clean it first." As he speaks, his breath brushes over Abbacchio's neck, and this close the scent of his hair is all too clear, and holy shit.

Abbacchio swallows. "Sure."

There's a curt nod from Buccellati, and then he crouches down. In this little bathroom there's barely room for that kind of thing, though, so to stay upright, he curls a hand around Abbacchio's calf. The touch is warm, and Abbacchio's so zeroed in on it that he barely hears Buccellati zipping into the cabinet beneath the sink (because it's not like they have room in here to open it, he guesses).

When Buccellati comes back up, he's got a folded towel in his hands. He wets part of it with warm water, squeezing out the excess, and Abbacchio is pretty damn sure he couldn't look away if he tried.

Circling around, Buccellati presses a hand to Abbacchio's shoulder, nudging him to lean back against the tiny counter.

And then Buccellati gets so close that they're almost brushing together – it makes Abbacchio's breath catch.

That caught breath leaves him on a hiss, though, when Buccellati starts wiping at his graze. It stings like a bitch. He has to stop his hands from grabbing on to Buccellati's shirt, just for something to hold on to; instead he redirects them to squeeze the lip if the counter behind him.

"Thank you, by the way."

Abbacchio glances at Buccellati's too-close face in bewilderment. From here he can't make out much more than ruffled bangs. "…What?"

"For this." There's the feeling of a finger brushing over the skin just beneath the cut as Buccellati pauses his cleaning for a moment. "You pulled me out of the way, remember?"

He does remember, yeah, hauling Buccellati out of the way of an oncoming bullet while forgetting to move himself and earning a searing line of pain along the side of his neck. It was just one moment out of plenty in that firefight, though, that they'd had each other's backs.

"I was just…." Abbacchio trails off. He means to finish with 'doing my job' or 'keeping you safe' but they both dry up on his tongue.

Because now Buccellati is looking at him. Blue eyes latch onto Abbacchio's own, and he stares at them. He'd love to dive into those eyes – to just swim around there and stay for a while, soaking in their comfort.

Buccellati's hand has stalled again, the towel barely shifting against Abbacchio's bullet graze. He's so close.

Abbacchio is sure that their legs are touching, now. This little bathroom is getting awfully warm, helped along by Buccellati's body heat aligned along Abbacchio's front. If he tips his head down another smidge, their noses could brush.

So he does, because he can. Buccellati makes a soft noise at the contact, subtle and sweet, and it's got Abbacchio's stomach swooping.

There's a rapping on the door, then, and they both jolt.

"Buccellati," comes the little old lady's voice from the doorway, "your dinner is almost ready!"

"Thank you," Buccellati calls, and he's pressed so tight to Abbacchio that he can feel the vibrations when he talks. "We'll be right out."

"You two had better be behaving yourselves in there!"

Abbacchio has never felt such strong contempt for a sweet, grandmotherly type before. His knuckles are sore with how tightly he's gripping the counter, fingers still twitching with the desire to grab at Buccellati and keep him near.

"Of course, ma'am." And Buccellati sounds composed, sure, but he's got that dusting of pink over his cheeks again.

Because Abbacchio's carefully listening for it (and no longer completely distracted by Buccellati), this time he hears the muffled footsteps of the owner as she leaves.

Once she's gone, Buccellati lets out a sigh, lowering his head. His forehead bumps Abbacchio's chin on the way, and that's the last bit of contact before he takes a step back. He's still close, but it's less overwhelming now.

Abbacchio feels torn over whether this is a good or bad thing. The moment is completely shattered.

That stinging starts up in his neck again as Buccellati resumes his cleaning with gentle hands. Before long, there's the unmistakable sound of a zipper, along with a slight flare up of pain as the wound is pulled shut.

"There," Buccellati breathes, and then his hand – his hand – trails over the zipper and down, coming to rest on Abbacchio's collarbone.

The light touch could be enough to get Abbacchio swept back up, re-lost in blue eyes, so he tries to focus on anything else. Unfortunately, there's nothing else to focus on, apart from Buccellati and how cramped it is in here….

"Here," he mumbles, fingers briefly tangling with Buccellati's as he takes the half-damp towel from him. It's still warm, and he folds it over to a clean spot. "Your turn."

Buccellati's brow gets that tiny, confused furrow to it, but rather than explain, Abbacchio gets right to it. There's blood splattered on Buccellati's face (some of it Abbacchio's), and an impressive scrape where someone landed a lucky hit.

As he cleans, Abbacchio tries to be as careful as possible, mindful of the fast-forming bruise beneath that cut. There's no sign from Buccellati that any of this is hurting him, though, which is good – Abbacchio's going for helpful, here.

…Judging by that subtle smile on Buccellati's face, as well as that certain sparkle in his eye, Abbacchio has succeeded.

"Thank you."

Abbacchio shakes his head. "I didn't do anything."

Buccellati lets out a thoughtful hum, and Abbacchio is afraid to press the subject further. Instead, he stands there under Buccellati's stern gaze, trying not to get too flustered when he again remembers that they're supposed to be on a date right now.

"You still have some blood on you," Buccellati says.

And he's even reaching for the towel, again, so Abbacchio pulls it behind himself. "I'll get it."

That happy sort of glimmer is still in Buccellati's eyes as he tips his head in acknowledgement and takes a step back. He's left enough room for Abbacchio to turn around, so he does, and gets to work on wiping the dried blood from the side of his neck and chest.

The mirror helps his task, sure, but it's also very distracting, because…Buccellati is back there, behind him, watching. If Abbacchio looks at himself too closely, he can see pink over his own cheeks. Great.

"…You're very handsome, you know."

Abbacchio watches his own jaw drop open at that, and he rounds on Buccellati. He doesn't have to look at himself to know his blush is much darker now – but Buccellati seems just as flustered, as if he can't believe what just came out of his mouth.

"What?"

"You're…" Buccellati glances away, shuffling on his feet for half a second, "handsome."

All Abbacchio can do at the moment is stare.

Seriously? Buccellati is seriously standing there, watching Abbacchio scrub off crusted blood, with tangled hair and smudged lipstick and running eyeliner, and the first adjective he thinks of is handsome?

There's altogether too much about this entire night that doesn't add up. Things had been pretty normal, up until Buccellati asked him out, and they've been getting progressively less believable ever since.

See, Abbacchio's crush on Buccellati is unrequited. Because Buccellati is largely too good for him. It's simple. Abbacchio has already accepted that.

And yet. Here they are. In a pocket-sized restaurant bathroom, centimeters apart, blushing at each other.

This can't be real.

"Why the fuck did you ask me out?" Abbacchio halfway thinks he should never have opened his mouth. He never would have, had he known that's what would fall out. But also he is genuinely curious.

Buccellati blinks, and looks mildly offended for a moment. Which is fair – Abbacchio knows he could have phrased that more…delicately, if he had to say it at all. But then Buccellati stands straighter, and although he's blushing, he goes for eye contact that Abbacchio does his best to meet.

"Because," he says, unnaturally skittish, "I…like you."

Abbacchio blanches. Is that a confession? "Why?"

At that, Buccellati goes mildly amused through his embarrassment, cheeks flushed, fingers fiddling with the ends of his sleeves. "Because, Leone, you're a strong person, and good company. I admire you…."

To Abbacchio's surprise, Buccellati's tone doesn't have the too-sweet undercurrent of flattering lies. And he feels like he might just combust. A simple handful of words has him weak, because this is Buccellati, saying these things, and Buccellati isn't supposed to admire people like Abbacchio.

Never mind that he loves the sound of his name on Buccellati's tongue.

"Oh," is about all he can manage. He's mentally kicking himself all the while. Returning the compliment should be easy, seeing as there are an infinite number of things to like about Buccellati. But Abbacchio is reeling.

"Sorry – I'm…new to this," Buccellati admits, mouth twitching into a nervous half smile before falling back to neutral.

"No," Abbacchio scrambles to reassure him despite his own uncooperative tongue, "you're fine. More than."

Because he is, and really, Abbacchio is the one who's the most lost here. Buccellati likes him. Genuinely. If not for the still-sore zipper on Abbacchi's neck, he would think this is a dream.

"It's just." Hands swapping to tug at his dirty suit jacket, Buccellati fidgets in place. He's less successful with keeping eye contact now, too. "Fugo said I should confess soon, because apparently you've been giving me "longing looks"…? And tonight, you were so –"

Abbacchio is loath to cut him off, but: "Wait. You asked Fugo for advice? Romantic advice?"

"He figured it out! And I didn't ask him…."

Thanks for nothing, Fugo. He knew and he couldn't warn Abbacchio of the incoming shock? "That kid's more perceptive than I thought."

"Tell me about it." Buccellati frowns briefly, caught on the last vestiges of mortification – probably brought on by the memory of Fugo giving romantic advice. He's back to himself soon enough, though, shuffling his feet until he's standing straight. "A-anyway. Dinner's probably ready by now. We better go and get our date started."

And then he offers his hand, and Abbacchio is stunned silent with nerves all over again. He stares at that hand for an embarrassingly long moment before grabbing on.

Buccellati gives him another tiny smile, squeezing his hand, and Abbacchio catches himself returning it on automatic. He feels lighter than air, all earlier aches and pains forgotten and far away. Stress is out the window. (Aside from the nervous-excited kind.)

"Come on," Buccellati says, cracking open the bathroom door with his free hand, "they have your favorite wine here, and their pasta is homemade…."

The both of them might look worse for wear, but Abbacchio is having a hard time imagining a more ideal first date.

Simply being with Buccellati is enough.

A/N: This, I think, was the one I had the most fun writing? It's funny, bc I used to write them both really suave/serious but now they're stuttering too much while I work on finding a happy medium.

Thanks for reading!