A/N: Day 11: map
Buccellati needs a discreet hiding place for the map pertaining to this particular mission...
Warnings for brief, imagined gore, and mentions of canon-typical body horror courtesy of Sticky Fingers.
"Can I borrow your back?"
Perched atop the arm of the couch and bent to put his socks on, Abbacchio nearly topples to the floor.
The sight of Buccellati zippered partially through the front door should be familiar by now, but it still catches Abbacchio so off-guard that he spends a few long minutes sitting paused with his sock halfway on, waiting for his heart to calm back down before Buccellati's question even registers. (He didn't even knock first, this time.)
"…My what?"
"Your back," Buccellati repeats. And lo and behold it doesn't make any more sense than it did the first time he said it. "I need to borrow it."
Abbacchio's hit by the horrifying mental image of his back zipped clean off, leaving a swirling void in its place – or worse yet, flesh scraped raw and bloody with exposed bone and muscle, and ugh, god, no more late-night slasher films for him for a while…
He yanks his sock the rest of the way on and asks, "What do you mean?"
Because no way is he going to agree to slump around without a spine just because Buccellati needs it to freak someone out with. He's lent out too many toes for that purpose already – even his entire foot on one memorable occasion. No more intimidation tactics via his borrowed body parts, was his demand after that, but Buccellati is notoriously determined in all things.
Case in point, he is now making his way inside, unzipping the rest of the door and re-zipping it behind himself. He pulls a folded sheaf of paper from a zipper pocket on his side, and makes a beeline for the table.
Now that both of his socks are on, Abbacchio follows, peering over Buccellati's shoulder as he spreads that paper out. Unfolding it covers a significant chunk of the miniscule tabletop.
"I need to make a map," Buccellati explains. In a way that manages to explain nothing at all. (At least he hasn't asked for Abbacchio's spine.)
Zero pieces of this conversation seem to connect, and Abbacchio frowns down at that giant sheet of paper covering his table – it makes all of this even more perplexing. "Is there something wrong with that map?" It's already got a route traced in thick black marker on it, after all – and what the hell does this have to do with Abbacchio's back?
Buccellati shakes his head. "This one is too obvious." Whatever the hell that means. He's motioning with his hand, now, beckoning Abbacchio closer. "Come here and take your shirt off."
…
Haha.
Fuck.
That little command is all it takes to get Abbacchio's cheeks flaring up red, but to Buccellati's credit, he, too, is looking sort of pink in the face. Not-quite watching Abbacchio, those blue eyes shift from the map to him and back again.
"What?" Abbacchio asks, at length. Isn't sure he heard quite right, just now.
Buccellati clears his throat. "Take your shirt off," he repeats. "I need to use your back."
It's a damn good thing Buccellati also seems flustered by those words, or else Abbacchio would think he's losing his entire mind, and that this is actually a normal, casual request. Nothing to lose it over. His head is spinning out of control, and it takes him a long moment to haul it back into anything resembling concentration.
Putting two and two together is a lot harder than it sounds. Under these circumstances. Somehow, Abbacchio manages.
"You're putting the map on my back?"
"Yes," Buccellati confirms with a nod. "It's in our best interest to hide it somewhere accessible, so if you could…"
Ah. Seems like he can't repeat the take your shirt off request more than twice. Abbacchio doesn't blame him. He himself is already having trouble putting those words spoken in such a commanding tone out of his mind during downtime, and okay that's enough thinking, time to just do as asked and.
Take his shirt off.
In front of Buccellati.
Nothing…abnormal or daunting here. Not at all. Just a simple matter of loosening these laces at the front and pulling his arms through the sleeves and tugging the whole mess over his head. Easy.
It does not feel at all like yanking off a bandage to make the nerve-wracking task go quicker, or anything like that. It's fine. He balls up fabric between his hands, unsure what to do with it, but the table is sort of taken up by that map, so he drops it down into the seat of a chair.
He almost wishes he'd held onto it, though. Because Buccellati's eyes are kind of stuck to his chest, right now, and the weight of that gaze has Abbacchio crossing his arms over his stomach. Not exactly insecure – but give him a fucking break, here, he's not used to being ogled by Buccellati from up close – hasn't exactly been topless in front of his boss yet – he can feel a blush creeping down his neck and over that exposed skin that's got Buccellati so enthralled –
And, god, if Buccellati stares for one more second, Abbacchio is going to burst into flames right here and now. Die from spontaneous combustion if the heart attack doesn't do him in first.
"…Buccellati," he mutters, eventually, when those eyes get to be too much to handle.
Buccellati blinks as if snapped out of a trance. Clears his throat again. Drags his eyes pointedly up to Abbacchio's face. He's even pinker, now, when he says, "Face the table?"
Those words come out softer. Less of an order and more of a request, slipped through the cracks in Buccellati's unfettered persona.
It doesn't do anything to help Abbacchio's poor overworked heart.
At least the hold he has over the rest of himself is sturdier. He can, in fact, turn toward the table, and does so without incident. He's fine. Completely calm.
Gentle fingertips on his shoulder send his pounding heart plummeting toward his stomach where it lands in a mess of fluttering; somehow he understands that this hand is coaxing him to lean forward, and he goes with the light pressure. Presses one palm to the wooden tabletop, curls the other hand around the table's edge.
"Perfect," Buccellati says. He sounds the tiniest bit breathless. If that's a tone that Buccellati can even achieve. Abbacchio wouldn't believe it if he hadn't heard it firsthand – and oh, great, Buccellati is moving in closer –
That tangibly warm presence hovers at Abbacchio's side. Buccellati is only vying for a better view of that spread-out map, but thanks to the tiny, circular nature of this table…
Crisp suit fabric is practically brushing Abbacchio's bare skin. Lighting more shameful fires.
God.
This is for work. Buccellati could have picked any of their backs, for this, though Abbacchio won't argue that his is the broadest. Best-suited for grafting a section of map onto. Nobody else's would fit it quite right. That's why Buccellati is here, now. It – it isn't personal, by any means, and he's only blushing because this is awkward as hell.
All of that considered, Abbacchio should really tell his frantic innards to calm down. It's too bad that's really hard to do when Buccellati's fingers land at the nape of his neck –
Abbacchio can't help but shiver, a horrible reaction that trembles up his spine, and there's no way Buccellati doesn't feel it. Or maybe he really does miss it – maybe he's too busy summoning Sticky Fingers to install a sealed zipper there, a short way down between Abbacchio's shoulder blades. Then another, branching off of that. From the feel of it. Each one accompanied by his touch.
"You're…" Now it's Abbacchio who has to clear his throat. "You're not going to just stick the whole thing to me?"
Buccellati glances between the map and Abbacchio's back as he works, and shakes his head on one of these passes. "If I did that, I wouldn't be able to see it. I still have to follow it, and this way I can do that by touch."
Touch, he says.
There sure is a lot of that going on, right now. With those fingers that glide along Abbacchio's back in random intervals and directions. Tracing a path that he can't even begin to comprehend, he's so focused on its feel – how the hell he'll survive the mission, he has no idea. This one might very well be it, for him. Buccellati's fingers traversing his back in public – god –
Abbacchio can't stop his raging blush, or the way his heart is pounding insistent. Begging to be set free, but that'd be kinda messy, and he already told Buccellati he wasn't going to be sharing any more body parts.
So. He will keep his feelings close at hand. And under control. Thank you very much.
Oh, fuck, Buccellati's fingertips are almost ticklish, skirting around Abbacchio's side for this next path, and he's shivering again. Squirms, a little, and blurts out, "Are you sure this is the best way to do this?"
Like an idiot. What is he trying to do, get Buccellati to touch him less?
That…that'd only be proper. Wouldn't it?
He doesn't really deserve the impossible gift that would be Buccellati touching him more, after all, and god, he's a mess –
"I can't chance someone else finding it and figuring out where we're going," Buccellati says. Back to being surprisingly steady, but a glance shows his cheeks are still flushed. "This way, only I have access to it."
Access to Abbacchio's back, that is. And the two of them will have to walk close, for this to work – how the hell Buccellati will be able to read directions in a bunch of random to-scale lines makes zero sense to Abbacchio, but he's not about to complain. Even though he should, he won't.
He might not deserve those careful fingers that rub zippers into his skin, but he's going to relish in them all the same. Appreciate that he gets to have them, because this just might be the closest he ever gets to prolonged fond contact with Buccellati.
Which is a shameful thing to want. Abbacchio's face burns hotter.
Buccellati's ears are also vibrantly red when he finishes his work, hand lifting away from Abbacchio. He zips the paper map into tiny pieces, seals them away in the table, and says, "Let's go."
The two of them come face-to-face when turning away from the table – and Buccellati outright gasps. A very soft noise, but it's there. All of him stopped short. He can probably feel Abbacchio's heartbeat skyrocket, he's standing so fucking close. His breath is warm at Abbacchio's collarbone. Eyes darting from the expanse of pale skin in front of him to the far corners of the apartment to Abbacchio's face.
Which is fine. Abbacchio's having a hard time looking at him, too, right now. Can't quite seem to manage it. Should definitely back away, but –
Fucking hell – why did he put his shirt on that chair in front of Buccellati, instead of this one to his own left? Now he's got to. Lean around Buccellati. Bend to the side a bit, sort-of curling around him, just to fish balled-up black fabric free of its seat.
Buccellati, thoughtful as ever, takes a stilted step backward so that Abbacchio has more space to redress.
The ensuing pause is the most awkward that Abbacchio's ever experienced.
Tension snaps like a dry-rotted rubber band when Buccellati speaks next. Abrupt words that try to shift the mood but don't quite manage it. "Let's, um." Wow, god, that's the first time Abbacchio's ever heard Buccellati stutter since meeting him – what the hell – "We should get going." And then he nods to himself and hurries toward the door –
Meanwhile Abbacchio scrambles to shove his feet into his shoes and follow, nearly catching the ends of his hair in the zipped-open door as it seals itself behind him.
There is no way he'll survive this mission.
A/N: Today, I offer you even more Abbacchio-flustered-by-Buccellati. Tomorrow...?
Thanks for reading. :")
