A/N: Day 6: injury

(I promise this eventually fits the prompt.)

"You don't have to stand there all night, Abbacchio."

"And you don't have to stay up working all night."

"I'm not working," Buccellati tells the agitated presence at his back, "I'm filing."

There's a soft sort of rustling from behind him as Abbacchio shuffles around, grumbling to himself. "That counts as work."

Buccellati doesn't have time to get sucked into one of these arguments, so he carries on with his organizing. Abbacchio's concern is much appreciated, of course, but it's not like Buccellati can just leave these jobs undone – it's bad enough that he's procrastinated on it this long.

"Even Mista is in bed," Abbacchio implores.

With a sigh, Buccellati sets aside the papers he's sorting. He turns in his seat, and there's Abbacchio, a little behind and to the left, where he's been impatiently waiting for an hour now.

Not that Buccellati asked him to.

Buccellati hadn't asked him to bring up dinner, either, but he had also done that, earlier. And eaten with him. And then cleared away the dishes.

…It might not be fair that Abbacchio is standing there, demanding Buccellati go to bed, but. It feels nice to be taken care of and looked after. Something about specifically Abbacchio doing so sets an entire cacophony of feelings aflutter in Buccellati's stomach, too.

He knows what these are, these feelings, and the way Abbacchio's looking at him right now absolutely doesn't help. That grumped up frown that doesn't do much to hide genuine concern.

Grumped up frown beneath a full face of makeup, that hypocrite.

"You don't look like you're planning on going to bed anytime soon," Buccellati points out.

"Someone has to stay up and make sure you take care of yourself," Abbacchio says, apparently before he can stop himself, if the way he blushes is any indication.

And ah, there go Buccellati's butterflies again, raising a fuss. His heart isn't much better, jumping right along with them. He really must be tired. "That someone is you, then?" It comes out much softer than Buccellati had intended, the words steeped in fondness.

(Still, he doesn't want to take it back.)

"I…" Abbacchio seems even more flustered now, clearing his throat and glancing away. "You hauled me out of the gutter so I could be useful, right?" he jibes. Nice save. "I'm just trying to live up to that."

In truth, Buccellati had hauled Abbacchio out of the gutter because they needed each other.

Because Buccellati had needed a team, and he wanted reliable people with good hearts to keep him afloat in this mire of a business he's stuck in. Because Abbacchio had needed somewhere to go, and Buccellati could help – wanted to help.

Turns out his gut instinct was right, when he had read about Abbacchio. All of that justice fueled fire is still there. Abbacchio has more than lived up to expectations.

Not that Buccellati will ever be able to say any of that out loud. It makes his ears burn just thinking about it – his mind really runs away from him when he thinks too long about Abbacchio.

All he can say in the end is, "Thank you," trying to make it sound lighthearted.

Abbacchio frowns at him. "…You're not going to bed anytime soon, are you?"

Somehow, Buccellati can't help but grin in return. "No," he says, turning back to his work because smiling in front of Abbacchio is an overwhelming endeavor. (For some reason. His eyes shine too much when he sees Buccellati smile. Surely it's not that rare or special…?)

"You need rest," Abbacchio insists. And he's right, but:

"I also need to finish this. Giorno's come up with a new filing system," one that involves turning the most important paperwork into plants for security purposes, "and I need these in order so that it can be implemented as soon as possible."

He can almost feel the irritation rolling off of Abbacchio at the mere mention of Giorno. (And even that is endearing.) "I don't see why that can't wait until tomorrow morning."

"Your concern is sweet, but –"

"Please go to bed," Abbacchio blurts, voice tight and sounding flustered, probably by the word 'sweet'.

And okay, in all honesty, Buccellati hadn't meant to let that one slip. Great, now he feels like blushing, too. Better just keep sorting these papers, head down. Familiar banter only, but not too familiar. A crush? What's that? "Are you giving your capo an order?"

More bristling from Abbacchio. "Orders don't usually start with 'please'," he grumbles.

"Well," Buccellati starts, but doesn't get far before one of the papers catches on his finger, and he cuts himself off with a hiss. There's a thin, barely there line of red on his fingertip, stinging with a vengeance.

Abbacchio, of course, is at his side in an instant. "What happened?"

"Just a papercut," Buccellati says, frowning down at it.

"Let me see."

Before Buccellati can insist that he's fine, or remind that he's had much worse injuries than this, Abbacchio's rough, warm fingers grab his palm and bring his pointer finger up close for examination. He scrutinizes the tiny cut for a long moment, and Buccellati feels the warmth of Abbacchio's hand seep through his own, down his arm, and straight into his heart.

His heart, which immediately picks up the pace when Abbacchio brings the injured fingertip to his mouth and kisses it.

"Ah –"

"There," Abbacchio says, squeezing Buccellati's hand once before gently releasing it, "all better." His usually pale face is bright red, and Buccellati is afraid he isn't faring much better. "Now go to bed before you hurt yourself worse."

Blinking between Abbacchio's face, and the black smudge on his finger, Buccellati is too pleasantly stunned to refuse. "Okay," he winds up saying without a thought.

And Abbacchio looks so relieved that he can't bring himself to go back on it.

A/N: One day I'll write BruAbba w/o careening off topic in one of their heads. Plot twist, I'm the one with too many feelings.

Thanks for reading!