13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 20:27

MILANO, ITALIA

Helena clocked in, hurrying to the meeting room on the second storey. People didn't pay that much attention to her, which was good, but she knew things could get awkward if she wasn't careful.

Showing up buck-ass naked to work had not been something she'd planned on doing.

Neither was looting an assassin's corpse in order to show up to said job with at least some sense of dignity.

The dead man's trench coat fit her surprisingly well, going down to her knees. Eötvös had been maybe a few centimetres taller than her, but she wasn't complaining.

Internally, what Helena was still complaining about was that goddamn bomb Stand of his.

I hate this. So. Much.

Helena walked into the meeting room at 20:29, taking the seat next to Margherita. The blonde raised an eyebrow, looking her over, but said nothing. Thankfully.

The meeting, for all intensive purposes, was short. If one counted forty-five minutes as short. Valeria, the middle-aged woman who had sprung the impromptu R&D meeting the previous Saturday was at this current meeting, as were Margherita, Helena, and about five or six others from the herpetology department. This particular branch meeting focused largely on curriculum regarding lab safety training for the fall interns (which would take place in two days' time). Neither Helena nor Margherita had any interns shadowing them this time around, so all they did was take whatever notes they could and pay attention.

For Helena, she had the extra challenge of trying not to flash her coworkers on accident.

The vampire exited the meeting, making a beeline for the vending machine. Blood might help her as far as a pick-me-up goes, but she still needed to eat. And caffeinate.

Thank God somebody had the sense to install a coffee vending machine on this floor. I mean, it tastes like crap half the time but right now I do not give a shit. I just need caffeine, dammit!

Helena purchased her caffè con panna, along with a bag of biscotti, proceeding to the lift that would take her to where her office was. Hers and Margherita's office, she should say, since they both shared the damn space. Not that she was complaining. She pressed the button for the fifth storey with her pinkie (the one on the hand not holding the coffee), waiting for the doors to close.

She got off a moment later, finding room 573. The plaques for M. Genovese (side A) and H. Sabbatini (side B) identified its tenants. The door was already open, and Helena walked inside, finding her flatmate perusing a book on oceanic reptiles.

"Ciao," Helena greeted, announcing her presence.

"Ciao," the blonde responded, looking up from the text. Her brow furrowed upon noticing the coffee. "You know the coffee here usually tastes like shit, right?"

"I just needed something." Helena glanced at the textbook. "Which one is that? There's like, a dozen or so marine herpetology books in here."

"It's the one JoJo recommended during the last video chat we had with him," Margherita answered, closing it.

By "JoJo", she clearly means Jotaro, Helena deduced, giving her a deadpan look. "'JoJo?' Really?"

Margherita shrugged. "Why not? I mean, if you take the "Jo" from his first name and the "Jo' from his last name it's easy." There was a quick pause, before she added, "I may or may not have been drunk when I was adding his contact info, because that's how he's listed as in my mobile's address book."

"That would explain a lot."

Margherita raised her eyebrows. "Speaking of explaining a lot, mind telling me where you got the trench coat? It actually looks quite nice on you."

Helena put her meal down and closed the door, wishing for the conversation to remain private, before returning her gaze to her flatmate. "I looted a corpse."

The blonde facepalmed. "Dare I ask...why?"

You may not get the answer you'd expect. Helena undid the buttons and the belt, proceeding to flash her flatmate.

Margherita now covered her face with both hands. "Helena, what the actual fuck?"

"It wasn't necrophilia if that's what you're thinking."

"Thank God." Margherita uncovered her face, running a hand through her hair. "So what was it?"

"Teenagers and a bomb Stand."

"Teenagers and a-" Margherita had a confused look on her face. "What?"

"I ran into Bucciarati's boys while I was graffitiing in the parking garage," Helena explained. "The younger ones, not him and the goth."

Margherita gestured for her to continue.

"Anyway, this idiot from Hungary decided to start shooting at us while we were just minding our own business, and I got hit by his Stand. Its ability was to shoot some sort of acid that reacted with organic matter so violently it caused an explosive reaction within a couple of seconds. It's one of the very few times that I am grateful that I am no longer human."

Margherita looked as though she was still attempting to process this. "So...let me get this straight. You got attacked by a pyromaniac, for no particular reason at all?"

"Well, not for no particular reason. After we took him down we found out that he was a hired gun sent to kill a dude who could quote-unquote 'replay the past' or some shit like that."

"So...a cop with a Stand."

"Likely. My guess is that he was looking for him in the parking garage but found us instead."

Margherita nodded slowly. "Okay. So what happened to him?"

"One of the kids put a few bullets in the guy's brain after he decided not to cooperate and tell us who the fuck hired him in the first place. Even though he was already dead, I drained his blood to heal myself."

The blonde gestured to the still-unbuttoned trench coat. "And that was his coat?"

"Yep." Helena showed Margherita her left wrist. "I also nicked his watch just for the hell of it."

Margherita eyed it curiously. "Bulova," she remarked, noting the brand. "Not bad."

Helena swung her left leg up, 6-cm stiletto heel landing on the desk. "Thanks." The trench coat slipped significantly, exposing the Hamon wielder to even more of the vampire's nudity.

Margherita facepalmed again. "Okay. Next time, you're bringing an extra set of clothes with you."

"Noted."

"Great. Now get your foot off my desk."

"Whatever you say." Helena granted Margherita's request, re-buttoning and re-tying the coat before attending to her meal.

The office coffee really did taste like shit.

13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 20:31

MILANO, ITALIA

"I think that's the last of it," Bucciarati announced.

Abbacchio sighed with relief. "Finally." They'd been cleaning grime and other stuff up for the past hour-and-a-half with soap and water (plus bleach after the soap and water dried completely), and there had been this one trouble spot not two metres away that had taken up the past forty-five minutes, even with bleach added only a few minutes earlier. The only light the two gangsters had at the moment was from the blacklight lamp Bucciarati requested for Mista to purchase earlier that day.

Face masks and gloves had really come in handy. Bleach was not something to be fucked around with. They'd found some safety goggles in the garage, which they were more than happy to wear for this as well. Bucciarati and Abbacchio had ditched their makeup and their outfits from earlier, instead opting for jeans and T-shirts. Abbacchio's was a solid black T-shirt (no surprise there), while Bucciarati wore a light grey T-shirt that really looked good on him. His hair was still gelled back, but Abbacchio knew he'd look even better with it in its usual style. As for Abbacchio himself, he had kept his hair in a ponytail so it could stay out of his face while he helped clean the basement.

"I don't suppose there's another fan in here?" Abbacchio asked, stretching. God, his back ached.

"Ceiling fan," Bucciarati responded, gesturing to the wooden piece of furniture above them. He pulled the cord, switching it on. Air circulation flowed through the basement.

Abbacchio shut off the blacklight, finding the regular switch not far away. He flipped it, and normal light flooded the area.

"Do you want to get some air?" Bucciarati asked.

"Definitely," Abbacchio responded.

They cleaned up in the room, putting away various items before putting the disposable PPE in a garbage bag and placing the goggles on top of the shelving that housed the cleaning supplies. The two washed up at a nearby sink, walking up the stairwell. They sat at the platform where the stairs plateaued between the two flights.

"This could be our little place," Bucciarati commented, a soft lilt in his voice. "Just the two of us, if we need somewhere to go where the kids won't bother us."

Abbacchio chuckled. "An old sex dungeon, eh? Yeah, they definitely won't be bothering us here. Not if they have any common sense."

Bucciarati laughed. "Common sense? Look at who we're talking about!"

"Fair point," Abbacchio conceded. "But I want the adults' space to be adults only. No exceptions."

"Consider it done."

They exited the basement a couple of minutes later, Bucciarati zipping the door shut behind them. Abbacchio and Bucciarati walked back into the house, both going upstairs after agreeing that showers were of immediate priority.

"I'll see you in a bit," Bucciarati said, standing in Abbacchio's doorway. He made to leave, but the goth stopped him. "Oi. Don't go anywhere."

Bucciarati turned, raising an eyebrow. Abbacchio walked over to the cabinet under the bathroom sink, pulling out a couple of bottles. He closed the door, walking back to where the squad leader was standing in the doorway.

"Extra bottle of shampoo, as promised," Abbacchio explained. "I'm also giving you the conditioner since the two work pretty well together."

Bucciarati accepted the bottles, a grateful look on his face. "Grazie mille."

Abbacchio nodded. The two parted ways, and the goth shut the bedroom door before walking into the bathroom and stripping himself out of his clothes.

Abbacchio stepped into the shower, the hot water relaxing him as grime from the day's events washed away. He finished up a few minutes later, putting on a black t-shirt and black sweatpants. He didn't bother putting his makeup back on since it wasn't like he was going anywhere for the evening.

Abbacchio walked out into the hallway, finding the squad leader waiting for him, clad in a light grey long-sleeved shirt and black gym shorts that went down to the middle of his thighs. His hair was ungelled, still damp but back in its usual bob style (minus the braid and the hairclips).

"How's the stuff working for you?" Abbacchio asked, referring to the extra bottles of shampoo and conditioner that he'd given him.

Bucciarati smiled. "It's wonderful."

"I'm glad you like it."

"So…" Bucciarati leaned against the wall. "What now?"

Abbacchio shrugged. "Caffè corretto?"

"Sounds good to me."

They made their way downstairs. From the sound of it, the hellions were back, and seemed to be engaged in yet another one of Mista's weird conversations.

"-no denying it, Narancia," Mista was saying. "We all saw her naked."

What?

"Ugh, I know," Narancia groaned.

Abbacchio and Bruno exchanged concerned glances before deciding to make their presence known in the common area. "Oi!" Abbacchio said sharply, causing all three teenagers to jump. "You weren't peeping through some woman's window now, were you?"

"What?!" Mista shrieked, mortified. "No!"

Abbacchio took a closer look at them, finding that they were covered in grime. Fugo had one hand against his injured side, and there was a bottle of ibuprofen in the other.

Seriously? Abbacchio turned his ire to the team's youngest member. "Pannacotta Fugo, didn't I tell you not to push it?"

"It couldn't be helped," Fugo snapped back, violet irises possessing a violent gleam in their crimson accents.

Bucciarati looked at the teenagers, also annoyed. "You three had better have a good explanation for this."

They looked at each other before returning their gazes to the adults. "We ran into Helena Sabbatini while we were out," Mista confessed.

"And an enemy Stand user that blew her up," Narancia added. "But she's fine. Apparently her body can put itself back together."

"Hence why we saw her naked," Fugo finished, a bite still present in his voice.

Abbacchio let out a low whistle. "Man, vampires are weird."

Bucciarati sighed. "Never mind that. You said something about an enemy Stand user?"

"Yep," Fugo confirmed. "We were just minding our own business and then he started shooting at us with a gun and his Stand. Damn bastard didn't speak a lick of Italian, and spoke very little English."

"What happened to him?"

"I put three between his eyes after he refused to cooperate," Mista said bluntly.

"It wasn't a fun time for any of us," Narancia added. "He had this bomb Stand that shot some sort of acid that blows people up once it made contact with their skin." His brow furrowed. "What did he call it again?"

"Bat Out of Hell," Fugo supplied.

"Yeah, that."

Mista shifted in his seat. "That wasn't even the worst part of it."

Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"We interrogated him, and found out that he was mercenary sent to assassinate a 'man who could replay the past,'" Fugo explained, using air quotes on that last part.

Narancia gave him a concerned look. "You're the only person we know with those kinds of abilities, Abbacchio."

Abbacchio folded his arms. "Even if he was after me, what the hell did I even do to piss him off in the first place?"

Fugo shrugged. "We tried asking about who had hired him, but he wasn't being...helpful. I think he might've been cussing us out in his native language. Speaking of," Fugo pulled a few items out of his suit jacket's inner pocket. "Sabbatini wanted us to get these to you, Bucciarati. She thought they might be useful."

Bucciarati took the items. Abbacchio saw a mobile phone, a foreign passport, and a wallet. The squad leader opened the passport, raising an eyebrow. "Hungarian?"

Fugo nodded.

Bucciarati skimmed through the passport, deep in thought.

"Find anything?" Abbacchio asked.

"Plane tickets. Visas," Bucciarati responded. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, raising an eyebrow after unfolding it. "The fuck is this?"

"Give it to me," Abbacchio requested. Bucciarati handed him the paper, and Abbacchio read what was on it.

Or, tried to.

Találd meg az embert, aki képes visszajátszás a múltat. Nem kell felfedezni az igazságot. Távolítsa el minden szükséges eszközzel.

He glanced up. "Okay. I'm lost."

Bucciarati frowned. "I'll put in a call to Polpo and see if there's anyone in Passione who speaks Hungarian." He stretched. "Everything that's been going on...it's getting more and more bizarre every day. Helena Sabbatini seems to be a far more important lead than we realised. Her, her flatmate, and De Luca."

Abbacchio's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Polpo said that Viviana Lombardi awoke her Stand five years ago, in the middle of a virological disaster," Bucciarati explained. "Her brother, Diego Lombardi, from D'Agostino's squad, also gained a Stand because of the bond with his sister. Additionally, Sabbatini, Genovese, and De Luca all went to grad school with Viviana, and two out of the three are Stand users. Sabbatini told me she awoke her Stand five years ago."

Huh. That's interesting. "Five years?" Abbacchio asked sharply. "You're certain it was five years?"

"Positive," Bucciarati responded. "Why?"

"De Luca told me he also gained his Stand five years ago."

Bucciarati ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know if it's simply a coincidence that those three awoke their Stands within a similar time period. Just assume that it is. But we'll need all the help we can get now that we've got a dead assassin and cryptic intel on our hands, on top of everything else." He directed his gaze at the teenagers. "You three go clean yourselves up. Abbacchio and I will check in on you in a bit, Fugo."

The ginger nodded, placing the painkillers on the kitchen table. The team's teenagers proceeded up the stairs, and the sound of at least one shower running could be heard only a minute or so later.

Abbacchio exhaled. "Fucking hell."

Bucciarati walked over to him, oceanic eyes seeming to stare into the depths of his soul. "We need to make sure this intel is accurate first before we start jumping to conclusions."

"I know," Abbacchio reassured him. "But this mission just jumped to a whole new level of weird."

"Tell me about it." Bucciarati walked over to the table, grabbing his mobile. "I'll be back in a sec."

Abbacchio nodded. "Take your time."

Bucciarati disappeared into the hallway. Abbacchio took a seat on the couch, noticing his hand shake slightly.

Is this my punishment? Is this karma, for getting my partner killed on the job? Do I really deserve this?

Probably.

Abbacchio didn't register Bucciarati's return until he heard the squad leader shouting a slew of vehemently colourful obscenities. He turned, seeing an expression on Bucciarati's face that seriously unnerved him.

Bucciarati was scared.

Abbacchio stood. "Any luck?"

Bucciarati shook his head. "Nobody in Passione speaks Hungarian, apparently."

"Damn." Abbacchio gave his superior a concerned look. "Are you doing okay?"

Bucciarati gave him a sad smile. "I'm just worried about you, that's all."

Abbacchio put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be okay."

"You don't know that!" Bucciarati sighed. "I just didn't think I'd have to be dealing with hitmen coming after my family all over again."

Abbacchio's mind flashed back to that night in the cemetery. "It was your father, wasn't it?"

Bucciarati nodded.

Abbacchio closed his eyes for a moment. I was afraid of that. He opened them again, looking at his superior directly. "What about your mom? Is she doing okay?"

Bucciarati shrugged. "No idea. My parents divorced when I was seven. I chose to stay with my dad. Mamma and I haven't spoken to each other in years. She doesn't even know what it is I do for a living, and maybe that's just as well." He looked away. "I haven't seen her since my dad's funeral." Bucciarati's eyes closed for a couple of seconds before he spoke again. "I know this kind of risk comes with the job, but it just brought back some bad memories."

Abbacchio swallowed, nodding. He couldn't think of anything to say, which was probably not helpful considering his best friend was hurting.

But, then again, maybe there was nothing he could say.

He tightened his grip on Bucciarati's shoulder. "Bruno. Look at me."

Bucciarati's eyes snapped open, and he looked Abbacchio in the eye. His pupils were dilated, and he seemed to melt within Abbacchio's grasp. The ex-cop knew that he had to make these next words count. "I knew the risks when I joined you in the first place. I'm in a better state than I was back then, though I'd be lying if I told you I was completely fine. I'm not. That's reality. However…" He faltered, suddenly becoming aware of some sort of gravity pulling his soul towards Bucciarati. But he had to keep going. "However, I'm grateful for everything that you've done for me. For the kids. And I appreciate your concern. I really do. But you don't have to take on this burden alone. I'm not letting you. I'm not going to hide." He straightened. "If there are more assassins after me, so be it. Let them come. We'll be ready."

Bucciarati gave a short nod.

Once again, there was an awkward silence. There was nothing...nothing but the strange gravity that somehow connected their souls. He wasn't sure Bucciarati was even aware of it. But that would be a talking point for later.

"We should probably go check on Fugo," Abbacchio said after a moment. His voice was a lot softer than he'd expected.

"Agreed," Bucciarati murmured. Abbacchio removed his hand from the squad leader's shoulder, and the two gangsters proceeded up the stairs to Fugo's bedroom.

By the time they got there, the ginger was already out of the shower, in pyjamas, and reading The Alchemist on his bed. His door was open. Bucciarati knocked, and Fugo let them in, closing his book. Only after being safely assured that he would take it easy for the next couple of days (and not go looking for trouble) did the adults leave him be. Abbacchio had promised Fugo that the two of them would go to the public library tomorrow afternoon. "It's better than being cooped up in here all day," he'd responded with a smile on his face.

Now, Abbacchio and Bucciarati stood in the latter's bedroom. The squad leader sat on his bed, tiredness evident on his face. The goth checked the alarm clock sitting on Bucciarati's bedside table.

22:47.

I really should be getting to bed.

"Buonanotte," Abbacchio said quietly, making ready to head back to his own room.

"Wait. Leone."

Abbacchio turned, raising an eyebrow. Bucciarati had a blush on his face, and his body language sent a message of self-consciousness and vulnerability the ex-cop's way. "Can you stay?"

Abbacchio nodded, sitting next to him on the bed. "What is it?"

Bucciarati lowered his knees from his chest, meeting Abbacchio's eyes. "I just don't want to be alone right now," he confessed.

Abbacchio could respect that; the squad leader looked as though he could shatter at any second. "I understand."

The silence was brief, but awkward. Bucciarati was the one who broke it a moment later, a nervous expression on his face. "Is...now...a good time to talk about our feelings?"

Out of all of the questions he could have expected Bucciarati to ask, that had definitely not been one of them. Abbacchio swallowed, trying to contain nervousness that had suddenly bubbled up inside him. "Uh, yeah. Sure. But I'm just warning you now, that's not one of my strong suits."

Bucciarati gave him a soft smile. "It's okay; it's not one of mine, either." That smile faded, replaced with that nervous expression again. "This might sound really stupid and cliché, but I can't get you off my mind. And it's not just because I'm worried about you. I am. It's just…" He faltered, sighing. "I'm sorry. I…don't know how to describe it very well."

"It's fine." I'm pretty sure I know where you're getting at. Abbacchio tucked some hair that was getting in his face behind his ear. "And, for the record, I don't think it's stupid."

Bucciarati visibly relaxed. Abbacchio sighed, hoping he wouldn't sound like an idiot when the inevitable word vomit came spilling out. "Truth be told, I wasn't really expecting my life to pan out the way it did. Not after…" Breathe, Leone. "Not after the incident. I mean, come on. We're soldiers, goddammit. In this gig, it's easiest to follow the orders of something absolute, and die for it if need be. That's usually how this shit works. I wasn't expecting to have a family, let alone a future. I wasn't expecting to act as a father figure to three hellions who are only at most a half a decade younger than us. Nor was I expecting to find something worth living for."

Yep. Definitely word vomit.

He kept going. "Normally, I don't feel anything in the middle of a mission. It's mainly been nihilism that's been there, guiding me. But not around you." Abbacchio exhaled. "No. It's different with you. It's like there's some sort of gravity pulling me towards you. Not physically. Maybe? Yeah, no. Not physically. Not really. As far as my soul goes, though? Definitely." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know if that made any kind of sense to you, but-"

"No, it makes perfect sense, actually," Bucciarati cut in. There was a serious intensity on the squad leader's face that Abbacchio couldn't quite place. "I've been feeling this strange sort of connection between us as well. I don't quite know how to explain it except...well...yeah, I guess I would use 'gravity' in order to describe it."

Well. Wow.

The goth felt butterflies flying around in his stomach. But this wasn't a bad feeling. Not really. No; this was pleasant.

And nerve-racking.

Abbacchio knew he had to make a decision soon, as the silence was starting to get to the awkward point again.

There's no turning back now.

He made his move.

And he hoped that it was the right one.

Abbacchio made sure to look Bucciarati directly in the eyes. "Look, Bruno." His voice came out a little more shaky than expected, and he took a deep breath to try and calm himself.

Bucciarati looked away. Abbacchio could tell he was still nervous. Not that he could blame him; they both were. But he had to finish. Abbacchio steeled himself. "This gravity between us...I think it's past time that we surrender to it."

Bucciarati's gaze whipped back to him, eyes as wide as saucers. If anything the expression was akin to that of a deer in the headlights. But there was a telltale look of pleasant surprise on his face.

Okay. I have to make the first move now.

Before Bucciarati could say anything, Abbacchio pulled the smaller man close. The goth closed his eyes as he delivered a surprisingly gentle kiss to Bucciarati's lips, taking his own advice and surrendering to whatever strange gravitational pull that was there between them. After a second, Bucciarati started kissing back with fervent intensity. Abbacchio felt one of Bucciarati's hands running through and grasping some of the long, white hair on the back of his head, to which he responded by matching the raven-haired squad leader's pace. He felt a pleasant sensation run through him as he shut everything out except for Bucciarati.

They broke apart a moment later, coming up for air. Abbacchio glanced at the squad leader, noticing tears and tear tracks running down his face. Bucciarati touched a hand to his face, an embarrassed expression making itself known upon discovering the tears.
"I-I don't know why I'm crying," Bucciarati said sheepishly.

Abbacchio blinked. "Is it happy or sad?"

Bucciarati wiped tears from his eyes, a small smile on his face. "Happy," he said sincerely. "Definitely happy."

Abbacchio grinned, relaxing. "That's good to hear." Because I was more than a little worried that I'd fucked it all up somehow.

Someone knocked on the door. Loudly. Bucciarati hastily scooted backwards towards his headboard, putting some personal space between him and Abbacchio. "Come in!"

The door opened, revealing a pyjama-clad Mista. His hair possessed its signature hat frizz. The gunslinger looked at the two adults. "Uhh...Am I interrupting something?"

I mean, you kind of were, Abbacchio thought begrudgingly.

"No, not at all," Bucciarati responded. "What's up?"

Mista had a somewhat annoyed look on his face. "Is there a plunger anywhere? My toilet is backed up."

Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "Is there not one in your bathroom?"

"No. The Pistols and I checked."

Bucciarati stretched. "There's probably one in the garage somewhere. We'll help you look."

Mista relaxed. "Grazie."

The three exited Bucciarati's bedroom. Abbacchio followed Mista and Bucciarati down the stairs. Once again, he felt gravity pull him towards the raven-haired squad leader. It was no longer strange, but calming.

Abbacchio embraced that gravity as a friend.