A/N: Day 16: together
(superpowers AU, takes place in the same universe as the fic I wrote for day 19: training during last year's Februabba ('All Along'))
In the aftermath of a recon mission gone horribly wrong, Abbacchio worries over a badly injured Buccellati.

Warnings for semi-graphic depictions of serious injuries, blood, and life-threatening situations.


Abbacchio's ears are ringing, his head pounding as he forces his eyes open only to immediately squeeze them shut against the dust. Coughs and tastes something metallic that's probably blood. Fuck – file this under experiences he doesn't recommend (right up there with the rest of his life).

He tries to rub the grit off of his face, but only one arm listens, drags his equally dirtied sleeve over his face. His other arm is pinned by something. When he tugs on it, it hurts, but it comes free of the thick cables it was tangled in.

Breathing is kind of a chore. Probably will be until the dust settles. If it settles…

He gasps, coughs some more. Wipes at his face with both hands, now, and this is how he finds a cut on his forehead. Touching it sends a sharp sting of pain to join the horrible throbbing that's coming from the back of his head and he hisses. Groans. Opening his eyes goes better, this time, at least, and all too soon he's squinting up at a twisted mess of metal. Emergency lights doing little to illuminate the space.

Everything is grim and dark, weight on Abbacchio's stomach and even worse pressure pinning his legs – trying to move those fucking hurts – shit –

Too much to keep moving them, so Abbacchio stops. Holds still and sucks down the deepest breaths he can manage, with whatever's across his stomach. Something a little more pliant than metal, thank fuck. More cables, it feels like when he touches them.

Thank fuck Leone had the presence of mind to lie down while falling to his death. The only useful tidbit he picked up during his time as a policeman. Well, that, and knowledge of who the true criminals are in this world, what real evil is. It sure as fuck isn't shoplifters or weed dealers or even vigilantes

Oh god. Abbacchio's heart stops for a beat.

Where's Buccellati?

His heartbeat returns only to tick higher, verging on too-fast, and his struggle to get himself free redoubles. Wiggling and grunting and squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his teeth against the pain as he yanks at his legs. Tries to brace his arms and pull, but floorspace is scarce on his side of the elevator – shit, what if things are even worse where Buccellati is?

There was – the two of them scrambled, some, when this thing started plunging. Abbacchio ran through scenarios in his head. Knows that elevator mechanisms are supposed to be safeguarded and it should've stopped.

Hah. Fuck.

They were rocketing toward death and he was trying to figure out someone to blame instead of making sure Buccellati survived. This is all he's fucking good for. He couldn't even preempt this danger.

It's some small mercy that his over-the-elbow gloves remain intact. Fugo and Narancia outdid themselves with whatever the hell this material is. Reliving this particular horror over and over would be a nightmare. Abbacchio has enough of those, thanks, and –

He yelps, pain flaring up in his leg. The right ankle is free and throbbing but now this left one hurts worse all the way up and there's so much silence. Only his haggard breathing. No movement.

Buccellati is – where the hell is he? He…has to be okay.

As okay as anyone can be. After plunging thirty stories. While already injured.

Shit. Breathing hurts. Abbacchio tries to slow it, deepen it. His pantleg feels wet. That can't be a good thing, but he ignores it, for now. Just lifts his free leg, and aims his foot at the chunk of elevator that collapsed atop him. Kicking until it shifts enough to pull free of.

He swallows down another pained noise, head falling back. Which is a mistake, because (big surprise) hitting the floor with it aggravates the throbbing there.

It's alright. He's okay, he lived, and now he's free. So it doesn't matter, that his left knee is in agony and his pants are definitely bloody. He shoves hard at the snapped cables on his stomach, pushes away the wall panel that's on top of those, and finagles his way to sitting. Grinding his teeth all the while in an attempt to keep quiet.

Paying no mind to the way that everything tilts as his vision swims, he struggles to his feet. Once he's up, he stumbles, bracing himself against the remains of the back elevator wall –

Falling into it, more like. Pain erupts down his back, sore muscles and countless bruises. Everywhere hurts. It's easier to take stock of what doesn't hurt (a single hip). But that doesn't fucking matter, right now – the blood dripping down the side of Abbacchio's face doesn't matter and neither do the legs that barely support him, shaking as he shuffles a step forward.

Buccellati is all that matters, and Abbacchio's heart leaps into his throat at the sight of dark hair. A single arm outstretched, blood spattered over the back of its hand.

Implying that Buccellati is facedown. Might've landed that way or fallen that way.

Either is bad.

Abbacchio wades through more twisted metal cables, grabbing handfuls of debris and tossing everything over to the other side of the elevator. It's a cramped space, but he has to get all the mess off of Buccellati and out of the way. That hand is alarmingly still and so is the back of Buccellati's head – these are the only visible pieces of him, except for one foot that also looks intact, and, oh, Jesus, there's a counterweight in here, half on Buccellati

Hurling this aside dents the elevator's wall. Abbacchio doesn't care. Dives for more chunks of caved in roof, pulleys, cables, wall panels. Forces his sore body to keep at it until everything is clear and he can see all of Buccellati, at last.

The blood is all Abbacchio notices, at first.

It's…all he can see. Glistening red in the dim emergency lighting. One of these lights is flickering. They don't do much against the darkness that comes from being in a literal pit at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

At least they're working at all. So Abbacchio can assess the damage. Rationally.

…Fuck, he's shaking. Just standing here, up to his ankles in elevator parts. He kicks that shit away behind him, staring at Buccellati's back, all smeared with dirt and dust and blood. Abbacchio's vision is blurring, but he blinks tears away with a vengeance. Swallows his heart because it's made its way to his throat.

A growing pool of blood is beneath Buccellati. Around his face, and his torso. Spattered over his clothes.

He isn't moving. Cheek to the floor and dark hair covering his face.

God, fuck, Abbacchio will never forgive himself. He should've known something was wrong the minute he boarded the elevator. Should've read it, checked it out, given the subject matter of this mission.

Even failing that as he did, he should've been more worried when Buccellati didn't use his powers to get them out right away – not that there was much time, but Buccellati's reflexes are fast and his zippers are ideal. He was hurt, though. In a previous fight. Some mission that Abbacchio wasn't needed on that left Buccellati favoring his right side while pretending to be fine.

Today, Abbacchio was needed. A possible lead on the Diavolo situation came up for him to investigate, and Buccellati insisted on accompanying him personally –

And it sure does seem like this was more of a definite lead considering the rigged elevator.

Why the hell else would none of the safety mechanisms activate? No brakes. Barely a cushion at the bottom. All of the fucking cables snapped – probably cut, if Abbacchio cared to look at them, if he'd cared to just touch the goddamned elevator and check beforehand.

His blurred vision is stuck fast to Buccellati.

Abbacchio can't keep putting off the inevitable. They need to get out of here in case someone comes along to make sure the job is finished, and to do that, he has to assess Buccellati's condition.

Trembling, he sinks into a crouch. His legs protest greatly, the left one erupting into pure agony, spilling fresh blood from a generous gash that tore a hole in his pants. But that's nothing, compared to Buccellati. Who Abbacchio is reaching for with gloved fingers that visibly shake. Unsteady, two of them land on the side of Buccellati's neck.

Abbacchio holds his breath until he feels a pulse, at which point it rushes out on something that feels like a sob.

Buccellati is alive.

Sore knees almost give out on him, and Abbacchio wobbles in place. He – he probably shouldn't move, Buccellati. You're not supposed to do that, until help comes, but. The way he's lying there is – it's bad. And the blood…

If he's bleeding, then it should be stopped. For that, Abbacchio has to move him.

He'll be careful. Of fucking course he'll be careful with Buccellati, shit, Abbacchio doesn't have the strength or the capacity for anything else on a good day, let alone a situation as shitty as this. He shifts onto his knees – bites his already-bitten tongue on a sharp gasp because that gash on the bend of his leg is now pressed to the floor –

Deep, slow breaths. This pain is nothing he can't sideline. Buccellati is worse.

God, he's so much worse. Unconscious and facedown. Abbacchio's hands are devastatingly unsteady as he reaches out.

The back of Buccellati's neck feels alright, for as much as Abbacchio knows about these things. Which is an entire miracle, all things considered. Gently, and with more care than he's ever done anything, Abbacchio takes hold of Buccellati's shoulders. Then he shuffles in closer. Uses every ounce of strength and control in himself to roll Buccellati onto his side.

And, fuck, Abbacchio almost wishes he hadn't, because now he can see, and his heart plummets to the pit of his stomach. Pounds heavy where it lands. He's going to be sick.

Blood pours from Buccellati's nose. He hit the floor with his face, and the area around his eyes is already darkening, the slope of his nose swollen and maybe even broken. Skin scraped off the tip. Off of his chin, too, and there's blood in his mouth, dripping everywhere – no missing teeth as far as Abbacchio can see but there is a busted-open lip.

There's – there's Buccellati's arm, too – god, his arm. The one he landed on is broken. Snapped beneath him. At a guess he was in the middle of lying down when this piece of shit elevator hit bottom and now there's the tip of white bone poking out of a bloodied gash in his bent forearm –

Abbacchio really will be sick. Fuck. Shit – he can't look away. Can't move. Can't really breathe.

He…has to stop the bleeding. Shouldn't touch that arm. Doesn't really want to chance moving Buccellati more, but Abbacchio knows for a fact that the side he's lying on now has a cracked rib at the least.

His other side, though, has that unnaturally concave arm. Rolling him onto his back is no good, either, because that leaves the blood in his mouth with nowhere to drip but back inside, which, is not at all ideal – and so Abbacchio has to sit Buccellati up. Maybe then he can even elevate some of these wounds. Look Buccellati over better.

Try to figure out what in the hell to do

Heart crawling nauseous all the way up into his throat, Abbacchio leans over Buccellati. He winds one arm around beneath him at the waist, and wraps the other diagonal up Buccellati's chest, clinging tight to one shoulder. He stays frozen, like this, for a minute. Careful not to let any of his skin touch any of Buccellati. Accidentally reading him is the last thing Abbacchio needs.

He's been getting the hang of his powers, lately, but he still needs these specially-designed gloves for a reason. Still can't quite turn it all the way off, and at times his abilities extend beyond his hands. He doesn't think he'd do a good job of shutting out Buccellati's memories at a time like this.

With as much care as he can muster, Abbacchio lifts Buccellati up. Raspy breaths go sharp on a gasp, Buccellati's eyelids fluttering –

And Abbacchio shuffles on his (torn, throbbing) knees as steady as he can toward the nearest wall. Winds up sort-of falling, twisting so his back hits it – hurts like hell but he's more focused on trying to cushion Buccellati's fall. They wind up side-by-side, tangled together.

One of Abbacchio's arms is around behind Buccellati's shoulders, and one of his knees is bent beneath Buccellati's thighs.

Not comfortable, given the current conditions, but. It's about as good as this shit gets. Abbacchio's (more) injured leg is stretched out straight, his own breathing haggard. He's staring at the twitching lines of Buccellati's face.

It's so damn hard to think straight when Buccellati is trying to fucking move. With his arm just lying there and his face bruised bloody and so much potential unseen damage.

Abbacchio clings as tight to Buccellati as he dares. Tugs a sleeve over his fist and wipes whatever mess he can from that busted nose. He cleans Buccellati's cheeks and chin, too, and that mouth that's opening, now, lips moving right along with those swollen eyelids that are trying to lift, and oh, god, Buccellati doesn't deserve to be awake for this shit.

That irrational heart of Abbacchio's is excited over the movement anyway. "Bruno," he mumbles, before he can think twice. His voice is as unsteady as he feels.

Buccellati makes a grunting sort of sound, in response. He shifts until he's leaning more fully on Abbacchio, and he's squeezing his eyes shut, clamping his mouth closed, shouldn't be moving so much.

"Bruno." Something like a sob escapes Abbacchio's chest. "Holy fuck, I'm so–"

Another grunt cuts him off, this one higher pitched and softer. Blue eyes squint open, and they're bloodshot, when they land on Abbacchio. Stare at him in an unfocused haze. Which is to be expected. Buccellati's bloodstained lips part, the bottom one still oozing red. "You…" a deep, unsteady breath, "called me Bruno…"

Fuck. Now is the absolute worst time for Abbacchio to be getting flustered. Butterflies join the horrible roiling in his gut and thinking gets that much harder. Damn it all.

In his defense, now is also not the time for Buccellati to be noticing what name Abbacchio used for him.

Yet here they are both are. Wrong priorities on display. Dying in a smashed-to-pieces elevator.

"Leone," Buccellati breathes out, and it hurts to hear, in this context. All of Buccellati is fading-weak-sore. He's slumped so heavy against Abbacchio's side and yet he's still fighting to open his eyes wider. To sit up straighter. Essentially doing his damndest to shake off a thirty-story plunge and an open compound fracture and who knows what other traumas to his person. "You're bleeding."

Goddammit. Abbacchio's stupid piece of shit heart is on a roller coaster today, and it plummets downward, now. "I'm fine. Your arm is –" Abbacchio can't fucking say it. Destroyed is the only appropriate word.

"…Hurts." Yeah, fuck, Buccellati – Abbacchio just bets that it hurts. At least a little bit. God. Bruising eyelids flutter closed, and then back open. Buccellati breathes deep through his mouth. Probably can't get any air through his nose. "S'alright." No, no it is not alright. "Your leg's – you'll…bleed out."

Oh, for the love of – "I'm fine, Bruno." Shit, why can't Abbacchio stop saying that name? Why did he start? He's supposed to be keeping his distance, here. Buccellati left him alone for months and Abbacchio resents the fact that –

Fuck it. What the hell does Abbacchio's resentment matter now?

What does it matter that this pool of blood beneath his leg is ever-growing. Or that he's starting to get lightheaded. He doesn't have any fear to spare for himself.

If he dies down here, it's no big deal. If Buccellati dies…

It's unthinkable.

"Stop the bleeding," Buccellati mumbles, even as he slides down the wall, toward the floor. His breath is hitching almost nonstop, and Abbacchio worries over that cracked rib of his, hopes it didn't get any worse. Those sore-looking blue eyes are fixed on Abbacchio's leg, though, and, fuck, fine if it'll get Buccellati to stop fixating on this –

Abbacchio reclaims his arm from around Buccellati's back. Yanks on the fingertips of one of his long gloves, pulling it off and out from under his sleeve. He sets this in his lap, can feel Buccellati watching all the while Abbacchio grabs hold of either side of that tear in his pants. Rips the hole open wider.

With unsteady fingers, Abbacchio threads his glove through that hole. Around the bare skin of his thigh, above that horrible oozing wound along his knee.

This is going to fucking suck, but he doesn't have hands to spare for putting pressure on this wound. He needs both of them to keep Buccellati upright. And so he loops the length of glove around itself, holds both ends in his stupid shaking hands and then tightens the knot. Pulls as hard as he can on both sides, bites his tongue, makes a noise anyway because fuck – shit – dammit – his leg is on fire –

Catching his breath, he finishes off the knot so it'll stay. He forgoes looking for something to wind it tighter with. This'll do. He doesn't have time to dig through debris.

Needs to get his hands back on Buccellati, who is slumping toward the floor. Abbacchio shifts him back upward, careful to only touch fabric with his bare hand (even this is a struggle, to keep his powers at bay, but skin contact is worse) and swallows the urge to apologize for the pained noise that squeaks out of Buccellati's throat.

Those eyes have fluttered closed again. They only pry their way open when Buccellati settles. "I can." He swallows. Licks blood from his swollen bottom lip. He's shaking. Lifting his unbroken arm. "Open a –"

"No." Abbacchio knows where this is going and he isn't about to allow it.

Somehow, even injured as he is, Buccellati can still look thoroughly disappointed in Abbacchio. His next words seem to take a whole lot of concentrated effort. "I'll open a zipper. You get out."

Disregarding the fact that Abbacchio is pretty sure his leg would give out on him if he tried to stand: "Not without you." Because bone left exposed for too long runs the risk of infection and Abbacchio has to get Bruno out of here, even though there's no way out without his powers and Abbacchio is going to be too weak to carry him, soon, doesn't want to jostle that arm – god – the way the bone shifts when Buccellati breathes is –

"You have to."

"No."

Buccellati bares his teeth on a snarl of pain, and lets his head drop backward. It topples sideways to lean on Abbacchio's shoulder. That hand that Buccellati was trying to lift flops back to his side, too. "Stubborn," he accuses.

"So are you," Abbacchio has to say. That fucking hypocrite. "I'm not leaving you here."

"Go get help."

"Help's already on the way." At least, Abbacchio sincerely hopes so. Narancia is smart enough to know shit went south the second their comms stopped responding, before the elevator cables snapped. And surely someone in this building would report this shit. The elevator might have some kind of built-in sensor that calls for help, even – all he and Buccellati have to do is wait.

Another deep, shuddering breath from Buccellati. "You need t–"

"I'm not leaving unless we get out together," Abbacchio stresses.

He just hopes they both survive that long.


A/N: summary of brainstorming:
Haven't written them trapped in an elevator together, that could be fun - It'd have to be an AU, otherwise Bruno would just use SF to get out - Brain demands superpowers AU even though that does not fix the easy-escape-SF problem - Well then Bruno is too hurt to use his powers and Abba refuses to leave him - The elevator is now plunged instead of just stuck,

Thanks for reading, :')