Author's Note: Inspired both by TracyLynn's Missing Scenes fanfics and Gio's confused and tired eyes at his shop in last night's ep (2.12), I've set out to write a little oneshot posing a possible thought process for our newest sandwich-making hero (a pun, I promise unintentional). I will say that I was confused during the episode--Betty leaves Mode to find Gio during the afternoon, arrives at his sandwich shop at night, then her family meets her at the doctor's in the morning? Seems odd, doesn't it? So in my little world, Betty doesn't leave Mode until much later, 11 or even past (she's on a manic, productive roll, you see), gets to Queens by I don't know, midnight or so and then the rest is history.
This is indeed my first fanfic--I do write, but this isn't my genre even a little. Reviews are helpful, if only to let me know that I haven't embarrassed myself on this first go-around. Overall, I just hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: As should be painfully obvious, I am in no way affiliated with Ugly Betty or its team. I can faithfully admit only to a little boredom and a small wash of creativity mixed with the tiniest crush on Gio. Tiniest. Promise.
He had tried to make some sort of amends with her, promising to call Henry by his given name, apologizing for even almost insinuating that he'd cheat. He hadn't meant to anger her in the first place, but banter was his primary means of communication. Subtle jabs, getting under her skin. Harmless. He'd stop this, though, he'd make friendly conversation and as much as it stung, he'd ask nicely about Egg...Henry. He walked up to her desk with the best of intentions, intending to turn over a new leaf, to be a conscientiously friendly presence. He could do this.
He tried his best to make calm, idle conversation, asking friendly questions and avoiding sarcasm at all costs. Her eyes bore into him at his easy questions, however, and he could tell that something was definitely wrong. In a split second full of broken pencils and accusations, Betty's index finger was crooked and wielded and she shouted with almost no punctuation at all: "You know what, Gio? I am sick of you coming up here to torture me I don't need it, so just GO! And don't come back!"
In a cloudy mix of anger, hurt, and confusion, he walked with purpose through the brief obstacle course of models and Mode staff and finally found his van. Climbing inside and safely pulling the door shut, he forcefully beat the heel of his hand on the steering wheel before softening up and resting his forehead on it instead. "What the hell was that?" he spoke aloud to the surrounding silence. Hearing his echoed words bounce back to him emptily, he chose to keep the rest of his questions in the safety of his head: "Really, what the hell was that? I thought if I just.. y'know, screw this, she's got Henry and I'm fine, this is fine. …but damn did she smell good."
With one last pound to the steering wheel, Gio cut his line of questioning at the knees and turned the engine over, reveling quietly in its faithful hum. It was too early to close the shop, but knowing he had his best guy closing up, he felt no real need to check in. Instead, he drove almost mechanically to Woodhaven House in Rego Park. He had no Irish blood or heritage that he could cite, but he'd found that you just can't get whiskey like it pours in an Irish pub.
He parked his van outside of a distributor's where he'd pick it up the next morning--a walk would do him some good tonight. Swiftly and almost theatrically zipping his leather jacket up to his throat, he walked up to the entrance and pulling the heavy oak door toward him, he took his first real deep breath of the day. In no kind of daze at all, he sidled to the bar, taking a familiar seat at the third leather stool from the far left. A too-long moment or two passed before the bartender's eyes caught Gio's, but the warm texture of his surroundings and the friendliness in Donovan's familiar face caused Gio to nod, offer a half-smile, and wait his turn patiently. Soaking up the casual din of the thin crowd and the ambient smells of grease and laughter, he pushed out his lips in thought and ran through several confusing scenarios to pass the time. "Betty could just be angry that Henry hadn't called…or she could finally have had enough of me…I apologized, though, and meant it, so why didn't that at least soften her anger? This isn't like her…why was she twitching and sweating, shouting and laughing like that? She's always a little awkward, sure, but it's an endearing awkwardness, not this worrying marionette show of the past few days…"
"Gio…what'll ya have?" Donovan interrupted his imagination before it launched into its truer worries.
"Oh, uh, scotch and soda…thanks."
When he looked up again, his drink had been set in front of him with a napkin and a basket of chips soaking into a bed of newspaper. He looked up at Donovan with an eyebrow cocked in question.
"You looked like you needed 'em." Donovan called back over the bar.
Gio smirked and laughed just slightly through his nose before thanking Donovan with a nod and taking a bite of the steamy, perfectly fried potato.
Finally settling into an easy rhythm, Gio drank very slowly, comfortable, he realized, in the quiet darkness, the rich heritage, and the palpable sincerity of these people in this place. Being around Mode so much hadn't changed him like she was worried it had changed her, but it did make him tired—laboring, taking pains to feel like himself, to act like himself. He was, yes, very tired and maybe this last dismissal of Betty's would be the thing he needed to get him back where he belonged, where he was needed and surrounded by like minds. It's not as if he'd been exactly pining for her, anyway—she's sweet, sure, and he can't name it, but something about her sticks with him after she's gone—but regardless, it's not loveyet, certainly, and he needs to focus. To focus.
In this easy cycle of thought, defeat, optimism, almost an hour passed and Donovan made him just one more drink. Gio took this one at almost a long gulp, but he always did have a high tolerance for both alcohol and pain, so he sobered up completely before walking back to his apartment over his deli. As he rounded the corner, the broken window stopped him first, Mrs. Mellman second.
"Giovanni! Oh, thank goodness you're here. I heard a horrible crash from downstairs and I called the police, but I didn't know how to get ahold of you. Oh, it's just awful—your window!"
In something like shock, Gio squinted at the remnants of the window before whipping his neck around to hear the distant sirens and their quickening approach. He turned his attention at once to the soft features of the woman who lived in the apartment next to his upstairs. She had a weathered look about her, but her eyes were soft, her skin glowing through its age. In her long, demure night gown and endearing curlers, he knew she shouldn't be out here for whatever this could turn into.
She was even shorter than his 5'5" frame and he easily put his arm around her tiny shoulders.
"It's alright, Mrs. Mellman. I've got it from here. You get some sleep, okay?" She looked at him with the eyes of a protective aunt, a little powerless but full of compassion.
"Be careful, Giovanni."
Only the emergency lights of the deli were on and from the sidewalk, Gio couldn't see if anyone was inside or what they could have taken off with. He gingerly stepped over the moat of broken glass and looked around blindly—all thoughts of even imagined romantic angst left him as he felt lightly around the window's shattered edge. He had just gotten started, just paid the second month's rent, finally perfected that new spicysweet aji caballero/chironja sauce for his condiment line, things were going so well and then…and then the lump of black and white with red glasses made a sound like a wounded animal. Gio's eyes immediately blinked out of their blindness and he focused for the first time on Betty's body, lying almost prone amidst the broken glass.
He kneeled toward her immediately. She wasn't awake and she wasn't bleeding—for both of which he put his fist to his chest and looked upward in thanks. "Oh, Betty," he spoke in a decibel just below a whisper. The confusion he felt earlier matched exactly in intensity the confusion he felt now—relief at this looking less and less like a robbery and fear at this looking more and more like a breakdown of some kind. His hand found its way to her hair and he stroked it softly once or twice as he shook his head in worry and disbelief. Betty? How could she? What would possess her? How am I going to pay for this? He brought his fingers to his own eyes and massaged them with an almost violent sort of vigor.
He opened his eyes immediately when he heard the sirens pull onto the street. He hit the lights and walked to the window, his stomach dropping again at the damage. As the officer got out of his car and walked up to the deli, Gio immediately made eye contact and stuck out his right arm for a handshake.
"I'm Gio Rossi, officer. I'm the proprietor."
The officer nodded and looked around to survey the scene. "You placed the call?"
"No, no, that was my neighbor, I was walking home at the time of the…incident."
"Right. And the girl inside. You know her?"
"I do. She's a friend of mine. I found her like that."
Gio couldn't read the officer's face throughout this interaction and the officer seemed only interested in deductive fact, which Gio rarely trusted.
"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to cuff her until we figure this out."
Gio felt immensely uncomfortable with this idea—usually innocent Betty bound in handcuffs on the floor littered with broken glass? The officer pulled the handcuffs out of his belt and had knelt beside Betty, reaching for an arm.
"Officer, I don't really…"
The man looked up at Gio as he fastened Betty's second wrist. "Procedure, sorry." He pulled a notepad from his belt and assumed a solid stance, straight shoulders. "Now, what happened here? Did you see anything?"
"No, officer, I walked around the corner and my neighbor told me she'd called the police…I didn't even see Betty—the girl—until I walked in to look around."
Over the years, Gio had gotten incredibly good at faking easy confidence even when he didn't feel it. In this moment, he stood confidently next to the counter, being careful to avoid looking at Betty, as the officer walked gingerly around the deli, piecing together clues as to what could have happened.
"Looks to me," the officer started again, "like she probably threw the trash can through your window there, then passed out. She didn't try for the register or the back—wait—" He walked over to the bulletin board on the wall opposite where Gio stood near Betty. "This orange paper here when you were here last?"
Gio's eyebrow again raised in a show of questioning. "No, sir. But…that's Betty's writing." He reached out his hand as if to accept the note.
The officer, however, kept the note to himself as he walked back over to Gio. "I'm sorry, this is going to have to be processed as evidence. Fingerprints, possible motive."
As the two men spoke, Betty began to stir.
"Where am I? What happened?" The confusion on her face was more than evident.
"We're trying to figure that out, ma'am." The officer was the first to speak. "You passed out in Gio's deli."
At this, Gio bent down, attempting to pull Betty to a more respectable sitting position. "Come on," he begged, lifting her by the arms.
Her eyes swirled back to his voice. "Gio?" He found her confusion exasperating.
Before he could respond, the officer took another cue. "'Parently, you threw a trash can through the window."
"What? I didn't do that!"
Gio watched as she put her hand to her head and followed her eyes to the handcuffs. He remembered he hadn't said so before, so immediately spoke again. "Lose the cuffs, officer. I won't be pressing any charges." Confused, angry though he still was, it would be ridiculous to press charges. Answers, though, would be more than preferable.
Betty, though, in a voice much more recognizable than the one she had been using lately, swore "No, no, no, no, Gio. If I did something illegal, then I'm prepared to face the consequences." She turned her attention bravely toward the cop. "What would I be looking at, officer?"
With his notepad still in hand, the officer calmly recited her transgressions: "Breaking and entering, criminal trespassing, vandalism—say five years."
His exasperation getting the best of him, Gio looked down again at the glass strewn about the floor and thought that yeah, that sounded about right. The panic in Betty's eyes, though, and her terrified plea of "help" made him do exactly that.
"Yeah, okay, we're good here." He'd figure this out. She'd explain. Enough of this. He reached down to pull her to her feet.
In what looked like relief and fear, Betty rambled on about how she would never do anything like this, but Gio stared at what used to be his window and tried to calculate the expenses and downtime necessary to repair it. Of course it would be Betty to throw a wrench, almost literally, into the plans that she kickstarted. It would be comical if it weren't so horrifying. He stopped listening to her, but the hairs on his neck began to stick up when her voice raised and she began to ramble on the way to tears. Comforting her would take all of the reserve energy he had left, which wasn't much, but he put his hand on her back and mustered at least an "okay, okay…"
"I don't understand," she admitted. "I'm so not myself lately."
The officer looked to Gio who nodded in thanks and dismissal before Betty began an apologetic, confused ramble. Still tired, confused, and exasperated, Gio tuned the talk out once more, but softened his eyes as he looked at her. "She's so…" he began to think before stopping himself wisely. "Yeah, okay," he began again aloud. "Let's get you to a hospital. Come on, Betty."
As they walked back to his van, Gio put his arm around Betty's waist, mostly to steady her. She tried to begin more rambling explanations and apologies as they walked, but he silenced her each time with a quick "shh" and a finger to his lips. He wasn't entirely sure exactly what he felt for her, especially in light of the chaos of the day, but his only instinct was to swoop her up and carry her, so he resigned to his confusion. Instead of the dramatic gesture, he tightened his grip on her waist, breathed a deep sigh through his nose, and whispered "okay, okay" twice more before driving her to the hospital.