This is my final contribution to the RWCW Trope Bingo challenge using the squares for: injury/illness, fish out of water, found family, and secrets revealed.
This is pre-series when it was just Bucciarati, Abbacchio and Fugo.
The Way Things are Done
A JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Fanfic
Abbacchio's breath was knocked out of him as he was slammed against the wall of the alley. He growled, retaliating with a swift kick to his opponent's knee, causing him to stagger.
He hadn't actually thought joining Passione would entail going back to having brawls in back alleys but he supposed that he shouldn't be surprised. It wasn't like he wasn't used to this anyway.
He just kind of wished he could figure out how to use his Stand in combat. They'd been training with Bucciarati and Sticky Fingers, but he still hadn't really gotten the hang of it and always thought it was much easier to just use his fists.
Taking a breather after laying out another thug, he glanced over to see Bucciarati currently taking on three members of the rival gang with the help of his Stand. Sticky Fingers was agile and extremely fast, perfectly built for combat. Moody Blues has his uses, sure, but Abbacchio was a bit jealous that his own Stand wasn't better in a fight, especially since he'd sort of taken on the job of bruiser and bodyguard for Bucciarati who, even in the few months Abbacchio had been there with the gang, seemed to have quite the track record of taking enemy fire.
And today seemed like it would be no exception.
Abbacchio saw the other man enter the alleyway behind Bucciarati, a familiar aura surrounding him before he released his Stand.
"Shit," Abbacchio breathed, elbowing one of the thugs in the side of the head, as he hurried over to aid his companion. "Bucciarati!"
The dark-haired man turned to see the new threat just in time for a dagger to sail out of nowhere, slamming into his shoulder, and forcing him back a step.
Sticky Fingers disassembled one of the thugs with zippers and reached up to grab the knife out of Bucciarati's shoulder, throwing it to one side like it was nothing.
Abbacchio summoned Moody Blues and rushed forward, slamming his fist into the face of one of the thugs before someone kicked him in the hip, grabbing him by the hair and slamming his face into the wall.
Abbacchio's vision blackened briefly, then he heard the familiar sound of Sticky Finger's zippers.
"Abbacchio!"
Bucciarati shouted and Abbacchio blinked his eyes open, seeing Sticky Fingers standing in front of him.
"I'm good," he grunted, staggering to his feet and summoning Moody Blues again to protect his back.
Another dagger soared out of nowhere and Abbacchio barely dodged it, the knife slicing through his upper arm.
"That son of a bitch is fast," he grunted, spinning to sucker punch another of the thugs.
"Yes, and unfortunately, we don't have a long-range Stand to combat him," Bucciarati said as he punched another of the toughs with Sticky Fingers.
Abbacchio kept one eye on the man as he fought the lackeys, watching his Stand flick into view again briefly.
"Look out!" he shoved Bucciarati away at the same time he leaned back, watching the daggers soar past, catching several strands of his hair. He cursed under his breath.
"Alright, it seems like it can only throw a couple daggers every couple minutes or so, otherwise he would be doing it more," Abbacchio said.
"Good observation," Bucciarati replied, a little breathless as the fight continued. "So, you're saying we wait until he does it again, and then rush him?"
"That would work," Abbacchio grunted, having Moody Blues kick one of the thugs firmly in the knee to bring him down and then in the head for good measure. Hm, well, his Stand seemed pretty good at kicking things, so there was that. "So now we just have to wait for—"
"Abbacchio!"
He saw the glow and movement out of the corner of his eye, before his vision was filled with only the sight of Bucciarati jumping in front of him and then his mind just went blank.
Everything happened so fast it took him a couple seconds to make sense of it.
Bucciarati slammed into him with a sharp gasp, forcing Abbacchio to stagger backwards, slamming into the wall and collapsing on his ass, Bucciarati sprawled between his legs, heavy against his chest—red slowly spreading across his white suit.
And all the time Abbacchio couldn't move because he was having crippling flashbacks to his partner lying dead at his feet…
"Umh," Bucciarati made a small noise in the back of his throat as he reached up shakily to grope at one of the two daggers sticking from his abdomen.
Urgency suddenly brought Abbacchio back around with some common sense and he reached out, gasping, "Hey, don't take those—"
But Bucciarati, the insane idiot he was, grabbed one of the daggers and yanked it out, stiffening with a small gasp and with Sticky Fingers' hand overlapping his own, he threw the dagger to the approaching Stand user.
The man stopped in his tracks, his own dagger sticking out of his throat. Abbacchio watched in shock as his eyes widened, and he gurgled, toppling over and twitching before going still.
The last couple remaining thugs beat a hasty retreat and Abbacchio was left sitting, panting in the alleyway with his injured boss who had just taken two daggers meant for him. And he had no damn clue what he was doing now.
"We need to call in someone to clean this up," Bucciarati said, voice strained as he shifted, one hand, shakily removing the other knife before pressing firmly against his middle, the other groping in his pocket. "We can—guh!"
He was cut off as he doubled over suddenly, choking, arms wrapped around himself.
Abbacchio finally snapped himself into gear, grabbing the other man's shoulders and holding him upright.
"Bucciarati! Oh shit…"
Red bubbled over Bucciarati's lips as his head hung between his shoulders, vomiting blood with pained shudders.
"Think…s-something's wrong," Bucciarati gasped, eyes glassy.
Yeah, no shit, Abbacchio wanted to say as he watched Bucciarati try to summon Sticky Fingers before the Stand simply flickered and faded just as Bucciarati slumped further forward, eyes rolling up in his head, collapsing on the ground.
"Bucciarati!" Abbacchio called, suddenly frantic, shaking the other man's shoulder. He reached out and grabbed one of his limp hands, moving it away from the bloody mess that was Bucciarati's abdomen. Blood seeped out to stain the ground, painfully obvious on the white suit. Abbacchio ripped it open, seeing the still-bleeding wounds, one below his ribs on his left side and the other to the right of his navel. The fact that Bucciarati was vomiting blood and unconscious were sure signs that this was not good.
Abbacchio made the decision right there as he ripped Bucciarati's coat off and pressed it firmly against the wounds to try and stem the bleeding. This wasn't the kind of shit Bucciarati could fix with a zipper and a few band-aids—he'd been on the receiving end up that particular brand of first aid a few too many times—he needed to get Bucciarati to the hospital. Now.
Taking off his own belt to tie around Bucciarati's waist to keep the pressure firm, Abbacchio heaved the smaller man up, carrying him as quickly as possible to where they had left the car.
With some struggling and shifting of the limp body, Abbacchio finagled the door open and set Bucciarati down heavily in the passenger seat before he raced around to the other side, digging the keys out of his pocket and trying to get the right one into the ignition.
He was shaking. Really badly. He hadn't noticed before, but he could barely get his hands to function at all. Only the thought of Bucciarati losing more blood by the second got him to take a deep breath and calm the shaking long enough to get the car started.
He didn't even want to know how many laws he broke as he drove to the hospital. He knew he was going way too fast for one, but he didn't care. It was a miracle he didn't hit anyone. The second he pulled up to the emergency room, he heaved Bucciarati out of the car, still a dead weight, and hurried in.
"Hey, he's bleeding out! He's needs help now!" He shouted as soon as he got inside.
Maybe it was the fact that Abbacchio looked like he'd just come out of a fight, or the fact that Bucciarati was leaving a worrying trail of blood on the floor, but nurses appeared within seconds with a gurney which Abbacchio gratefully lowered Bucciarati onto.
He heard hushed whispers of Mafiosi from the staff, but if anything that made them go faster. Abbacchio absently followed them as they wheeled Bucciarati away, not knowing what he should do, before the nurse at reception held a hand out to stop him.
He whirled around, causing her to flinch.
"Signore…I'm sorry, but no one's allowed back there. He's likely going to be in surgery."
"I just—I…" Abbacchio trailed off, suddenly feeling the effects of the fight on his own body. It ached. His shoulders slumped and he cast one last look toward where they had taken Bucciarati, feeling completely lost at the moment. How sad was that? Was he nothing but a dog to Bucciarati that he felt so out of place any time he wasn't just taking orders?
The receptionist seemed to take pity on him. "Here, I'll call a nurse to see to your injuries. You'll know as soon as they get him taken care of."
Wordlessly Abbacchio stood there, gaze set down the hall before the nurse came to lead him into a curtained off area and tended his minor injuries. A couple butterfly bandages on his forehead, five stitches in his arm, and a couple pain pills and he was given leave to go sit in the waiting room again.
Abbacchio sat for what felt like eternity. He watched several people come and go, but no one came back to tell him how Bucciarati was doing.
He paced sometimes, and other times, he sat, clasping his shaking hands, and bouncing his knee repetitively.
He couldn't believe he had let this happen. Why had Bucciarati jumped in front of him like that? It was Abbacchio's job to protect him, not the other way around. To think that he had almost just lost another partner—god he had a terrible track record. Maybe no one should be around Abbacchio anymore.
And then reality finally snapped back to him and he remembered Fugo waiting back at the apartment the three of them were currently sharing. He would be wondering where they were. He would probably be pissed. Abbacchio knew the kid was a bit high-strung, and this would not be welcome news, but he would need to know.
He felt his pockets, then remembered that Bucciarati was the only one who had his phone on him. He'd left his in the car.
Which was still parked right outside the emergency room. Still running.
"Shit," he muttered, and stood, turning to the receptionist. "I'm—I'm gonna go park my car."
"I'll let the doctor know if he comes out," she said kindly.
Abbacchio raced out to get in the car and drive over to park it close by. He turned it off and took a deep breath before he reached for his phone and dialed the number to the apartment.
"Hello?" Came the tense voice on the other end after only a couple rings.
"Fugo, it's me."
"Abbacchio? Where the hell are you? You were supposed to check in an hour ago—"
"I know!" Abbacchio snapped. "Look, Bucciarati took a pretty bad hit during the fight. I had to take him to the hospital—that's where we are right now."
"What?" Fugo demanded on the other end and Abbacchio could picture him gripping his hair. "How bad?"
"I don't know," Abbacchio replied honestly. "He's…in surgery right now. He took two daggers to the stomach. He was bleeding pretty badly."
"Oh god, oh god," Fugo murmured and Abbacchio suddenly felt terrible that he had to tell him this. Especially since it was his fault. "Do you…do I need to come?"
"No, stay there," Abbacchio said tiredly. "They're not going to let another person in with him anyway. I don't even know if they'll let me in. Just…look, I forgot to call in for clean-up. Can you do that?"
Fugo took a deep breath. "Yeah."
"Thanks, kid," Abbacchio gave him the location and then added, "I'll call you as soon as I know anything, okay?"
He heard Fugo take a shuddering breath. "Okay."
He ended the call and leaned forward, pressing his face into his hands. He took a shuddering breath as he tried not to let his dark thoughts overcome him. His knee started bobbing again against his will—that was a nervous tick that he hadn't quite shaken after going through his withdrawals.
Abbacchio dragged his hands down his face, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. What he really wanted to do right now was go get a drink, take the edge off a little. He knew there was a bar about two blocks from here…
But he hadn't had a drink in over a month now, he had been doing so well—mostly thanks to Bucciarati who had patiently and firmly helped him kick the habit. The last thing he wanted to do right now when he had already caused Bucciarati so much trouble was to go and throw away all the hard work he had done to get Abbacchio sober. That would just be a nice fuck you on top of everything, wouldn't it?
The fact was, he was terrible in situations like this. He always felt so out of place, like he wasn't really being any help at all.
But he still picked up his courage and got out of the car, heading back toward the hospital and the cold sterile waiting room, where he sat until the doctor came out, heading over to him.
"Signore?"
Abbacchio was on his feet instantly. "Where is he? Is he all right?" he asked, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking.
The doctor remained calm. "He had a lacerated spleen and several other injuries that were causing internal bleeding. Luckily you got him here in a timely fashion so we were able to patch him up before too much damage was done."
Abbacchio felt some relief upon hearing that.
"However, the injuries are serious, and he'll need to stay here for a few days at least while we monitor his condition."
"Can I see him?" Abbacchio asked.
"He's in recovery right now, and unless you're a family member…"
"I'm his damn bodyguard, I'm not leaving this hospital until he does!" Abbacchio snarled.
The doctor paled just slightly but he quickly nodded. "As soon as we get him situated in a private room, I'll bring you to him."
Abbacchio nodded and watched as the doctor hurried away, snapping his fingers at a couple nurses and murmuring to them.
Abbacchio tried to look menacing as he fought to keep his hands from shaking.
Within half an hour though, he was led to a private room where they had put Bucciarati.
"We'll send nurses to check on him periodically, but if you need anything let us know," the doctor said before everyone beat a hasty retreat, leaving Abbacchio alone with his unconscious boss.
He stood there for several minutes just staring at Bucciarati. He looked…awful, to put it lightly. Abbacchio had seen him injured, hiding pain, he'd seen him sleep deprived and practically keeling over from exhaustion, but the sight of him lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to multiple machines and tubes, looking way too pale for his own good, was far too unnatural for Bruno Bucciarati and Abbacchio felt like he was going to throw up.
He glanced toward the heart monitor, seeing that it was steady at least, the slow beep giving him a little reassurance, but everything about this version of Bucciarati still seemed so wrong that Abbacchio's mind was protesting the image.
Bucciarati was perpetually strong, and he was always there—even when, at certain times, Abbacchio hadn't wanted him to be—and he certainly wasn't supposed to get hurt so bad that he ended up unconscious in a hospital because of Leone Abbacchio.
He finally sighed and crossed to the other side of the room, sitting down in the chair in the corner. He shoved his hands between his knees to stop them from shaking, trying to keep still. It seemed like every time he got even a little bit anxious about anything these days, his alcohol withdrawal ticks came back in full force. He knew it was because these were the kinds of feelings he'd repressed with alcohol for so long it had become habit to his body to react this way, but it just made everything worse.
Usually when he felt like this, he would go to Bucciarati. They would talk about pointless stuff, or play chess or cards; anything to keep Abbacchio's mind off of things until he could find his inner calm again.
But Bucciarati couldn't help him right now because he was in a damn hospital bed—because Abbacchio had put him there.
He tried to calm his breathing as he felt the panic start to tighten his chest, counting the stitches on the seat cushion as he did to focus his mind. It worked enough that he could get himself to stop shaking, and then he decided it was time to call Fugo with an update, wishing he had something better to relay.
The phone was answered almost immediately. "How is he?"
Abbacchio glanced over once more at the still figure in the bed, his stomach twisting. "They said he would be fine, but he's gonna have to stay here for a few days." He ran a hand over his face. "I'll tell them to let you in tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay," Fugo breathed. "I um…the clean-up is done, so you don't have to worry about that."
Abbacchio's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thanks."
"And in the meantime, I'm not telling anyone what happened, but Polpo will want a report, especially if Bucciarati's going to be out of commission for a few days."
"I'll write a report tomorrow, but I want to see if he wakes up first," Abbacchio told him.
"Okay," Fugo said again. "Please just watch over him, Abbacchio."
Abbacchio swallowed hard. That's what he had been trying to do and look where that had gotten Bucciarati. Abbacchio was a real bastard. No one should trust him to do anything.
Once he ended the call with Fugo, a nurse came in and surprised Abbacchio by bringing him a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
"I figured you hadn't eaten dinner. Let me know if you want more," she said kindly.
Abbacchio thanked her, but was sure he wouldn't be able to even eat this. The coffee was welcome though, the caffeine helping his headache a bit.
It was dark outside, and the hospital quieted down as everyone settled in for the night. Abbacchio slumped in the chair, exhausted physically and mentally both, and yet still unable to sleep. He watched Bucciarati intently, even though he hadn't so much as moved yet. A nurse had come in to check on him earlier and hadn't said there was anything wrong.
Finally, at some point, Abbacchio nodded off, too exhausted to keep himself awake another second, head crooked back at an awkward angle in the uncomfortable chair.
He was woken up an undetermined time later by sounds of discomfort. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before he remembered where he was, after which he instantly glanced over toward the bed. Bucciarati was shifting slightly, his face twisted in obvious pain.
Abbacchio was on his feet in an instant, ignoring the protests from his own body as he bent over the bed, carefully lowering a hand to Bucciarati's uninjured shoulder.
"Hey, easy, it's okay," he said.
Bucciarati's eyes blinked open, glancing around blearily before landing on Abbacchio's face. "Abba-cchio," he slurred, wincing as he shifted again, one hand groping at his stomach.
Abbacchio quickly grabbed his wrist. "Hey, don't do that. You're gonna be okay now. You should just rest."
The heart monitor was picking up and the beeping seemed to freeze Bucciarati.
"Where…?" Bucciarati's eyes flew open then and shot around the room, taking in the gross, sterile walls, and crisp sheets, the hospital robe he was wearing, and the tubes and wires coming out of it.
Working in such close proximity, Abbacchio had seen Bucciarati in pretty much every mood, but he had yet to see him truly panic. Now he would be hard-pressed to find another term for what happened.
"You brought me to a hospital," he gasped out as the machines started to get louder due to his increased heartrate. Abbacchio glanced toward the door, hoping a nurse might come in soon.
"Yeah, I did, you were unconscious, vomiting blood, what did you expect me to do?" he asked, slightly defensive, not understanding what the problem was. The doctors had seemed to acknowledge the fact they were Mafiosi and not care. It couldn't be the first time one of Passione had ended up in the hospital so what the hell was Bucciarati's problem?
But he started to clumsily rip at the monitor lines, yanking them off of his chest.
"Make that stop!" he snapped. Abbacchio turned to the machine, but Bucciarati simply summoned Sticky Fingers and unzipped it, finally making it shut up.
"What the hell is your problem?" Abbacchio finally demanded.
Bucciarati glowered at him, the look half menacing, half scared to death, before his gaze darted around the room. "Get me out of here. Now."
Abbacchio stood staring for a minute before he recovered the ability to speak. "No; don't you get it? You got your guts scrambled earlier, you think you're just going to walk out of here?"
"Abbacchio." Bucciarati snapped, voice stronger than it should have been, despite his heaving chest. "Get me out of here now."
But Abbacchio put his foot down again. "You're on morphine, you're not thinking straight, just calm down, I'll get the nurse…"
"No!" Bruno snapped, voice cracking and he was…shaking…terrified, eyes darting around and Abbacchio realized that he really didn't want to be here. Whether it was because of a morphine induced nightmare, or some past trauma, maybe both, Bucciarati was not going to settle down here.
"Abbacchio. I'm ordering you to get me out of here, now!"
Abbacchio finally took a deep breath. "All right, just hold on a second."
Bucciarati was already reaching for the IV line in the crook of his arm, but Abbacchio stopped him. "Regardless, you need this, so we're taking it with us," he said firmly, reaching up to grab the bag and handing it to Bucciarati, who didn't seem to want to bother protesting that.
"I need pants."
"Well, you don't have any. They probably had to cut your suit off," Abbacchio told him, glancing around before turning back with a sharp look. "Stay here for two seconds, I'll be right back.
Abbacchio cursed as he rushed out of the room, hoping he wouldn't find Bucciarati crawling toward the door when he got back.
Thankfully, he found an empty nurses' station and grabbed a wheelchair from there before hurrying back. Apparently, they were going to be signing out AMA. Abbacchio wanted to punch Bucciarati for wanting to do that after all the hours of worrying if he was even going to live or not on his part, but Abbacchio figured he might have his reasons.
Thankfully Bucciarati was still in bed when he got back with the wheelchair, though from the grimace on his face, it looked like he had attempted to get up at least once.
"All right, let's go," he said, pulling the wheelchair up to the bed and reaching out to help the injured man down into it.
Bucciarati gasped as he was lowered into the chair, curling around himself as he slumped, breathing heavily. Abbacchio glowered at him.
"See? Even the morphine isn't keeping you from hurting right now. You should be in bed."
"I have a perfectly fine bed at home, thank you," Bucciarati wheezed and Abbacchio rolled his eyes as he grabbed the blanket from the bed to put over the other man's lap since he was only wearing the flimsy hospital gown.
"Then you have to stay in it," he said and started to roll the chair out of the almost eerily silent hospital.
He thought they were going to make a clean break, but the receptionist and a nurse were standing, talking in the waiting room and looked up, shock on their faces.
"Excuse me? Where are you taking him? He's not nearly fit to go home yet," the nurse protested.
"I'm fine," Bucciarati croaked, not doing a good job of proving it as he doubled over in the chair.
"We'll be signing out AMA," Abbacchio informed the nurse, not stopping on his way to the door, turning backwards to push through it and roll Bucciarati out after him, glowering all the way.
He saw the other man's entire demeanor change as soon as they were outside. Bucciarati sagged, looking exhausted, the tense lines around his face seemed to change more to pained ones. Abbacchio frowned as he hurried them across the mostly empty parking lot to the car.
"The job…" he murmured as Abbacchio opened the passenger door in preparation to get Bucciarati inside, realizing then with a sick swallow that there was a puddle of dried blood in the seat from the ride there.
"Don't worry about it, Fugo called in the clean-up, and I'll help you with the report in the morning."
"Hmm," Bucciarati hummed, not seeming to have the energy for more. Abbacchio hurriedly worked on getting him in the car, unceremoniously slipping his arms beneath Bucciarati's knees and shoulders and lifting him from the chair into the car. He felt the other man tense at the pain, gritting his teeth, but he didn't say anything.
Abbacchio tipped the chair back a little to be more comfortable, then kicked the wheelchair away from the car. He wasn't going to bring it for fear that Bucciarati would use it as an excuse to get out of bed.
"All right, let's get out of here," he muttered as he got the keys in the ignition.
Bucciarati seemed to have passed out again before they got home, and as Abbacchio pulled up at the apartment, he got his phone out, calling Fugo.
"Abbacchio? What happened?" the sleepy voice asked.
"I need you to get down here and help me. We're in the parking lot," he replied tiredly.
"You're what?!"
"Just get down here!"
Abbacchio turned to Bucciarati, reaching out to check his pulse briefly before he got out of the car and went around to open the other door.
Fugo appeared in a few minutes, a coat hurriedly thrown on over pajamas, a scowl on his face.
"What the hell are you doing bringing him back here? If he was bleeding internally he should really be in the hospital!" Fugo snapped.
"Believe me, I tried to tell him that," Abbacchio growled back. "He's the one who threw a fit." He bit his tongue then, amending the phrase. "Well, he actually seemed terrified, honestly. Any idea why?"
Fugo's eyes widened. "No…but he does have an aversion to seeking out medical help…"
Abbacchio snorted. "You can say that again. Come on, help me get him upstairs."
He handed Fugo the IV bag they'd brought and reached in to pull Bucciarati's once again unconscious body out of the car. His back twinged unhappily.
Somehow they managed to get their unconscious boss up to their apartment without Abbacchio dropping him, or being caught by any other occupant coming home late. With Fugo's help, Abbacchio tucked Bucciarati into bed and tied the IV bag to the headboard so that it would continue dripping down the line.
"He's going to be pissed if he wakes up in that hospital gown," Fugo said with a sigh.
Abbacchio nodded in agreement and in a couple more minutes, they had slipped the gown off of him and finagled the unconscious man into a pair of pajama pants. Fugo then checked his bandages.
"Probably should change these," he said. "I'll go grab the first aid kit."
Abbacchio simply sank down onto the end of the bed, pure exhaustion overcoming him. When Fugo came back he seemed to take pity on him.
"I'm sure you've been up all night. Why don't you go get some sleep? I'll keep an eye on him for a while."
Abbacchio shouldn't be so weak; after all, it was his fault, if indirectly, that Bucciarati was lying there and on top of the initial taking a hit for Abbacchio, the ex-cop had apparently made a huge mistake bringing Bucciarati to the hospital. But Abbacchio was exhausted. As terrible as he was at being a caretaker, he'd be even worse if he couldn't even keep his eyes open. And the longer he sat on this bed, the more he wanted to just lay down across Bucciarati's feet like the guard dog he was supposed to be, and just pass out.
He sighed. "All right, thanks kid. Just let me know if you need anything, okay?"
"I'll be fine, it's not the first time I've dealt with something like that. I'll just keep him dosed on the strong stuff so he won't wake up until morning hopefully," Fugo said.
Abbacchio huffed a laugh and ruffled the kid's hair before he forced himself back up onto his feet and made his way first to the bathroom to take a hot shower.
After the hot water had relaxed his muscles and cleaned all the blood and alley grime off, he simply collapsed in his bed and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
Abbacchio felt mildly refreshed when he woke up around ten the next morning. The aches from the day before had settled, making him stiff all over but there was nothing new there.
He slowly put on clothes and makeup before heading to see how Bucciarati was doing.
His stomach twisted slightly, knowing they were going to have to talk about what had happened yesterday, both because he had things to say, and because he was sure Bucciarati did to. He wasn't looking forward to it. He didn't want to think about how badly he had failed because he couldn't keep his mind on the current fight, on the present, the instant Bucciarati had dove in front of him…
He planned to start working on the report until Bucciarati woke, but he didn't expect his boss to already be awake, doing just that, when he came into his room to check on him.
"You're up already?" he asked, feeling bad for sleeping in now.
"Good morning, Abbacchio," Bucciarati said tiredly, scratching a few more words onto the paper before that act seemed to exhaust him and he slumped back against the pillows.
"How are you doing?" Abbacchio asked, inching further into the room.
Bucciarati shrugged slightly, then winced as the action pulled his injured shoulder. "I'll be fine."
Abbacchio bit his lip and went to sit down in the chair Fugo had likely vacated earlier to get some work done. "I'm sorry for yesterday," he blurted, deciding it wass just better to get this over with. "I shouldn't have frozen like that, it was unprofessional. That should be me lying there, not you."
"Abbacchio, I don't blame you for this," Bucciarati said quietly. "Your reaction was understandable. If anything, I should be apologizing for bringing up bad memories. Obviously, it wasn't my intention."
"You're not the only one, I guess. I should probably apologize for that too," Abbacchio replied carefully, remembering just how terrified Bucciarati had looked the night before.
The other man glanced down at his pad of paper, tapping his pencil against it. "I'm sorry about that, Abbacchio."
Abbacchio's eyes flew open in surprise. "What? Why?"
Bucciarati pressed his lips together. "Because that was very unprofessional. I don't know what came over me, I wasn't thinking, it just…" He took a deep breath and looked down at his lap.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Abbacchio said, feeling uncomfortable.
"No, I owe you an explanation, that was hardly befitting my position as leader. Especially since I commanded you to do something against your better judgement," Bucciarati said bitterly, though Abbacchio could tell the bitterness was not directed at him "I have you to thank for my life, after all," Bucciarati continued. "I'm sure I wouldn't have lasted very long if you hadn't gotten me to the hospital so quickly. It just…being in there brought back some bad memories is all."
Abbacchio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Not a lot of good memories in hospitals," he said quietly.
"No," Bucciarati replied looking away to stare at the wall, hands folded in his lap. "Especially when you're twelve and you have to wait alone for your father to get out of surgery after being shot seven times by drug dealers." He took a shaky breath. "And on top of that being the only one there to protect him when they came back to finish the job."
Oh. Yes, Abbacchio could see why that would give Bucciarati an aversion to hospitals. The large first aid kit and zippered-together skin were making a little more sense now.
"It's just…whenever I hear the sounds of a hospital, the smell of it, all I can think of is waiting to see if I would never see me father again. And then waiting under his bed with nothing but a knife to take out the men who came to kill him."
"Shit," Abbacchio whispered, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I guess that was probably a pretty fucked up way to wake up, especially on pain meds." He could also see why Bucciarati had such an aversion to drugs and the dealing of them now. Someone had tried to kill his dad over it. Abbacchio's family may have shunned him after his own disgrace, but once upon a time, he would have done the same in Bucciarati's position—and being alone like that….at twelve…god, Abbacchio couldn't even imagine.
"Your dad…" he bit his lip before he could finish that. It wasn't really his place.
"He's dead," Bucciarati said with a soft exhale. "He was never able to fully recover and died a few years later."
"I'm sorry," Abbacchio said again, not knowing what else to say. Bucciarati nodded, blinking past some moisture in his eyes that he was quick to hide.
"It just all hit me at once last night," Bucciarati confessed. "I'm sorry for acting so childish."
"No, I get it. Hell, I'm the one who froze in the first place from my own trauma, getting you stabbed. Twice."
Bucciarati's mouth turned up into a wry smile. "We are quite the pair, aren't we?"
Abbacchio rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you might want to start finding more people to join this team of yours because at this rate we might not last long."
"Probably a good call," Bucciarati replied.
"And you need to stop jumping in front of me," Abbacchio said. "I'm supposed to guard you, remember?"
"I'm sorry, Abbacchio, but that's my prerogative as a leader. I must protect my famiglia at all costs. It's the way things are done."
"Okay," Abbacchio grunted. "Then you have to promise me that you will let me drag your ass to a hospital if you're dying."
Bucciarati pressed his lips together. "Only if I'm actually dying."
"If you can't argue with me, then it counts."
"And what if I'm just unconscious for a couple minutes?"
"Depends on why."
"If I'm bleeding out and unconscious?"
"Fair enough," Abbacchio said, folding his arms over his chest. "I would also like the same treatment, if you don't mind. I would not be very happy to wake up on the couch with one of Sticky Finger's zippers holding my guts in."
Bucciarati nodded solemnly. "Noted. It's always best to lead by example, I suppose."
Abbacchio sighed resisting the urge to shake his head. "You want some tea?"
"Please," Bucciarati said.
Abbacchio went to get up, but turned to meet Bucciarati's eyes sincerely. "I really am sorry about your father, but…thank you for telling me."
"He was a good man," Bucciarati replied softly. "And it still hurts me. But…if none of that had happened, I never would have joined Passione, and I wouldn't have been able to save you, or Fugo. We're going to make a difference, and…you're my family now. It's different, but I am no less content for it."
It was odd, considering their lives, and even what they had been through in the last twenty-four hours, but Abbacchio couldn't help but share that sentiment. Whatever came before didn't really matter, they had to rely on each other now, and as Bucciarati built his team, Abbacchio didn't doubt that more lost souls would be saved along the way.
"Yeah…" he said after a long second. "I guess I'm starting to feel that way too."