More Abbacchio angst today. This is a pre-series one set just after Narancia joined them.

Replay

Day 27: Pushed to the Limit

(muffled screams, stumbling, magical exhaustion)

Abbacchio keeps having nightmares reliving his past. But maybe something more than nightmares is going on after all.

It was the same every night. Abbacchio would toss and turn until he finally drifted off out of pure exhaustion, but the peace would not last long.

He would always find himself back there.

It wasn't even some dreamscape version of events. It was literally just a replay of his partner dying over and over. The scene would play out: Abbacchio staring at the man, gun pointed, hesitating. Hesitating too long. And then the other figure would shout, jump in, hit the ground. And there would be blood pooling around Abbacchio's shoes, someone screaming (it was him).

And then it would just start over. A constant torment that left him craving the liquor he had given up for the last time only weeks ago. Had the memories always been this bad? Or had he just forgotten because he used to have something to dull his senses?

Abbacchio wrenched himself from the nightmare loop with a barely bitten off cry, lying on his back and tangled in the sheets, soaked in sweat. He covered his eyes with a hand as he fought to even out his breathing.

Would this ever let him go?

XXX

Bucciarati looked up as Narancia bounced into the kitchen, cheery, if not still half asleep.

"Morning! Can I help with breakfast?"

Bruno smiled. Their new recruit was extremely eager, and as much as it pained Bucciarati that he had ended up in Passione despite his warning, at least Narancia was where he could keep an eye on him.

"Of course, why don't you cut up this fruit for me?" Bruno directed.

Narancia eagerly reached for the cutting board.

"Wash your hands," Fugo reminded from where he was reading at the table.

Narancia huffed and went to wash his hands as another figure stumbled in.

Bruno had to do a double-take at the other man to see if his eyes really did have that dark of circles under them, or if he were trying out a new makeup style.

"You look rough," Bucciarati said sincerely as he reached for a mug to pour Abbacchio some coffee. "Did you not sleep again?"

Abbacchio grunted and took the cup, sitting heavily at the table. "Doesn't matter. What are we doing today?"

Bruno pressed his lips together but knew that Abbacchio wasn't about to elaborate anyway.

"We have a couple errands to run. I'll need you for one of them. Fugo, I want you to take Narancia to deliver a few reports for me today."

"Oh boy, field trip!" Narancia crowed, making both Fugo and Abbacchio wince. "Does this mean I don't have to do lessons today?"

"There will be plenty of time this afternoon," Fugo assured him. "You're not getting out of it that easily."

"Damn."

Bruno hid a small smile. He couldn't help the fondness he felt for his small famiglia. He just wished that he could figure out how to help Abbacchio but until he figured out what was actually going on, that was going to have to go on the backburner.

He set out plates for everyone. "Eat up, we have a lot to get done today."

XXX

Abbacchio heaved himself out of the car with more effort than it should have taken. He was exhausted. He was going on three nights now without proper sleep—or really any at all. But Bucciarati had promised the job wouldn't take that long. Maybe he would be able to catch a nap that afternoon.

The job should have been easy. All Abbacchio had to do was use his Stand to replay a conversation with a suspected traitor to Passione. He should have been able to do it easily. He thought he had gotten the hang of how to use this thing now.

But the second he called Moody Blues out, he felt suddenly woozy, dizzy, nausea welling in his stomach. His Stand rippled and started to take form without him even telling it to.

"The hell…" Abbacchio muttered, annoyed, before horror overcame him when he finally realized what form Moody Blues was taking.

"Stop!" he snapped. His Stand rippled, but continued to shift into the form of his partner. "I said stop! Dammit!"

Moody Blues finally did stop and shifted back to normal, staring at Abbacchio with its blank eyes.

"Abbacchio, what's going on?" Bucciarati asked, bringing Abbacchio back to reality.

He exhaled slowly, feeling even dizzier. He pressed a hand to his head. "Nothing. What time am I looking for?"

Bucciarati gave him a look, but thankfully recited the time.

Abbacchio carefully reengaged Moody Blues, but it still felt like all his Stand wanted to do was shift back into his partner. Why the hell was this even happening? Was it because the nightmare had permeated all his thoughts for so long that Moody Blues was just reflecting that?

The amount of effort and concentration it took to make sure his Stand stayed on task, coupled with his exhaustion was making Abbacchio feel physically ill. Sweat beaded on his brow as Bucciarati recorded the conversation Moody Blues was replaying and he swallowed hard, fighting hard not to just throw up.

When he was finally done, he dismissed his Stand gratefully but a wave of fatigue washed over him and he swayed.

"Abbacchio!"

Bucciarati caught his shoulder, steadying him and Abbacchio glanced over to see the concern plain on his face. "Are you all right?"

No, of course I'm not fucking all right, Abbacchio wanted to snap, but swallowed hard, breathing in through his nose before he spoke. "Yeah."

Bucciarati's brow lowered. "What's been going on with you? You're not sleeping."

Abbacchio sighed, pulling away to stand on his own even though he still swayed slightly. "I've just been having nightmares," he admitted. He refused to elaborate, but at least it was some explanation.

"I'm sorry," Bucciarati replied sincerely before he took a deep breath and continued, "I know it hasn't been easy, but I'm still proud of you. It's been over a month now that you've been completely sober."

Abbacchio knew Bucciarati meant well, but he really didn't want to have this conversation right now. He was closer than Bucciarati knew to going back to his old ways if only to get some sleep.

He shook his head. "Whatever," he muttered. "Feels fucking great."

Bucciarati's shoulders sank slightly. "Leone, if you need to talk…"

"I don't," Abbacchio snapped. "Now are we done here?"

It was lucky he had a forgiving boss because he knew he was being incredibly disrespectful, but he was exhausted and sick and he wished his Stand would just work properly instead of playing shitty tricks on him. It had never made him feel like this while using it before. He felt even more exhausted than he had when he dragged himself out of bed that morning.

Thankfully, Bucciarati put him out of his misery, holding up his tape recorder. "We have what we need."

They headed back out to the car, and Abbacchio slumped in the seat, staring out the window on the drive back. He really had to get his shit together or he wouldn't be any good to anyone. Including himself.

XXX

It was worse that night if not different. Abbacchio stood there, gun raised, but this time it was him who was bleeding out. He could hear screaming from far away. The hot numbness in his chest as he watched his blood leave his body…

Abbacchio surged upright in bed clutching his chest.

His dead partner was standing there at the end of his bed, blood dripping onto the floor.

A strangled cry burst from his throat and he instinctively reached for the gun he kept on his bedside table but as he turned back around, the apparition was gone and he felt the exhaustion start to pull at him like a thousand tons of brick tied to his feet.

He jumped as the door to his room opened and a figure with a tousled head appeared.

"Hey, you okay?" Narancia asked cautiously.

Abbacchio sneered, grabbing a pillow and slinging it at the door. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

"Okay, sorry," Narancia closed the door quickly and Abbacchio slumped back down, hand over his eyes.

He was slipping. He needed sleep at the very least. Or maybe he was just going crazy.

He hadn't craved a drink in a while like he did that night. It took everything in him not to go find something to ease his torment. Honestly, at this point, he wasn't even sure he could trust that to work either.

It didn't get any easier. He continued to get little to no sleep for the next couple nights and it was wearing on him so much that Abbacchio was pissed, desperate, and quickly reaching his limit.

He stumbled into the kitchen, fumbling for a cup of coffee, desperate for anything that could give him just a little bit of energy. He was beyond exhausted, a bone weariness that made him feel like he could pass out any second. Honestly, he wished he would. Maybe he wouldn't dream then.

"Good morning, Abba!" Narancia's too-cheerful voice pierced his ears as the kid skipped into the room, grabbing a box of cereal.

Abbacchio grunted, annoyance welling up. "It's too damn early for that."

"I was just wishing you good morning, never too early for that," Narancia protested, wrinkling his nose as he looked up at Abbacchio. "Geez, you look horrible. What, did someone die or something?"

Abbacchio slammed the mug he was holding down on the counter, sloshing the coffee over the side, making a mess. "Would you just shut the fuck up for once, you little brat?!" he demanded.

Narancia froze, staring at him with wide, welling eyes. "I—I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I won't bother you anymore." He ran out of the room, just as Bucciarati came in, a very dark look on his face.

"Abbacchio, let's go for a walk," he said, leaving no room for argument.

Giving up on any attempt to do anything, Abbacchio followed him.

They left the apartment building, and the morning sun was too bright, piercing Abbacchio's eyes and causing him to cringe, seeking the shadow of the building. Bucciarati seemed to have some mercy on him because he led them toward the alley beside it, away from the road where it was quieter.

"I didn't mean to make the kid upset," Abbacchio muttered finally. "I'm just…"

"I know," Bucciarati cut in quietly. They had stopped and he stood there facing Abbacchio, arms folded over his chest. "What's going on, Leone?"

Abbacchio slumped back against the wall and buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms into his aching eyes. "I don't know."

"Is it just nightmares? Or is it something else."

Abbacchio paused briefly before he repeated. "I don't know. I swore I…" He lowered his hands and shook his head before he looked up and stared Bucciarati in the eye, deciding nothing was going to make him look crazier than he already did. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Bucciarati's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "I don't know. I suppose I don't not believe it's a possibility. I heard a few stories growing up, but then fishermen tend to be somewhat superstitious anyway."

Abbacchio took a shuddering sigh. "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but…I think I might be haunted."

Bucciarati, to his credit, didn't look at him weird or anything. "You know that lack of sleep can cause hallucinations. I think that there might be another explanation to this."

"I just want sleep," Abbacchio said sincerely, running a hand through his hair.

"If it would help you can lay down on the couch and try to rest today. Narancia and Fugo will be out and I have paperwork to do."

Abbacchio sighed, but he already felt like he couldn't stand for another five minutes. "I'll try."

Bucciarati nodded, motioning for him to walk back toward the building entrance. "I'll make you some chamomile tea instead of coffee."

Fugo and Narancia were getting ready to leave when they got back. Narancia made a point to avoid noticing Abbacchio, and the goth stopped briefly with a soft sigh, knowing he should rectify this as quickly as possible.

"Hey, kid, I'm sorry for yelling at you."

Narancia looked up, peeking at him from under his messy hair. "S'okay."

"It wasn't okay, and I shouldn't have done it."

"I know you're tired and you didn't mean it," Narancia said with a perception Abbacchio didn't usually see in him. He smiled slightly. "I get cranky when I'm tired too. Guess we have that in common."

Abbacchio snorted. "Guess so. We good then?"

Narancia grinned. "Yup. Hope you get some sleep, Abba."

He left with Fugo and Abbacchio stumbled back toward the living room, slumping down on the couch. He hadn't even changed yet, he realized, but was too tired to be embarrassed about going around outside in his pajamas. He would be more comfortable like this anyway.

Bucciarati brought him a cup of tea and Abbacchio took it gratefully.

"Let me know if you need anything else. I'm just going to work in the office."

Abbacchio nodded, slumping back as he sipped the tea.

He finished about half of it before he lay back and closed his aching eyes. He was so exhausted, it didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

XXX

Bucciarati was deep into writing up his report for last week. They'd had success with the recording he and Abbacchio had gotten and now the traitor and his accomplices were being rooted out.

He was just finishing up and moving on to his emails, when he heard what sounded like a muffled yell. He frowned, wondering if he was just hearing things, but then he heard it again and stood up, having a bad feeling about this.

He left the office and hurried toward the living room when another cry sounded out.

"Abbacchio!" he called, coming to a halt as he made it to the couch, staring down at the other man.

Abbacchio's eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead in obvious terror. He seemed frozen in place, strangled cries bubbling up in his throat, even though he seemed unable to open his mouth.

"Abbacchio!" Bucciarati tried again, shaking off his sudden horror as he reached out cautiously. The other man seemed to be having some kind of night terror. Was it even okay to wake him up?

That was when he heard something else. A slight whirring that sounded familiar. He finally glanced in the direction Abbacchio was staring and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the bloody figure standing there.

There was a hole in the center of its chest, staining the police uniform. It's head was bowed, and for a second Bucciarati was certain that Abbacchio had been right about the ghost prediction.

Until he took a cautious step closer, and saw the timer face in the center of the figure's forehead.

Moody Blues. Bucciarati breathed a sigh of relief. That was one mystery solved, and yet, why was Moody Blues out here in this form, seemingly outside of Abbacchio's control?

He would figure that out later though, because right now he had to get Abbacchio awake.

"Abbacchio!" he bent and grabbed the man's shoulders, giving him a hard shake. His muscles were tight as a rope, fingers digging into the couch cushions. He seemed completely unresponsive.

"Abbacchio, you have to wake up. Disengage your Stand!"

Abbacchio was still locked in some sort of sleep paralysis though. He'd even bit through his lip, a trickle of blood dripping down his chin. A whimper escaped his throat.

Bucciarati clenched his jaw and spun around. "Moody Blues! End!" he snapped at the Stand.

To his surprise, Abbacchio's Stand did actually obey, slowly shifting back into its actual form before disappearing entirely.

Bucciarati spun back around as Abbacchio gasped, his whole body shuddering as he fell limp on the couch, still staring ahead.

"Abbacchio?" Bucciarati asked more quietly. "Leone?"

Abbacchio's eyes finally snapped toward him and he heaved in a breath, scrambling into an upright position as he whipped his head around, searching.

"W-what happened?"

Bucciarati sat down on the coffee table, facing the other man.

"I think I know what might be going on now," he said.

XXX

Abbacchio sat on his bed, staring at his hands. He was too exhausted to do anything. The 'nap' earlier had only made him more tired, and yet he was not about to go back to sleep yet either. He couldn't go through that again yet. He felt…incredibly fragile.

To think that it was his own Stand doing that to him. What the fuck?

"It's not uncommon for Stands to act on their own when you first get them, and it still hasn't been a year since you got yours," Bucciarati had told him earlier, obviously trying to reassure him, but it hadn't helped, because why the hell was it happening now? Hadn't it been long enough?

Deep down, he knew though. It was his trade-off for being sober. Before, he'd drowned his feelings in the bottle, and now that he no longer had that crutch, his subconscious had decided to torture him with those memories again. What a fucking joke.

What was worse was that he was no good like this. If he couldn't get his shit together, he would be no better than a freeloader to Bucciarati and that was the last thing he wanted. Not after the man had gone through so much trouble, firmly, patiently helping him conquer his crippling alcoholism. Falling apart now when he had made it so far just felt like a slap in the face.

He was surprised when there was a soft knock on his door, and even more surprised to see Fugo peeking his head in instead of Bucciarati.

"Do you mind?" Fugo asked him.

Abbacchio shrugged. "Be my guest."

Fugo closed the door behind him and came inside to sit down on the bed next to Abbacchio.

"Bucciarati told me what happened," Fugo said and before Abbacchio could be annoyed that Bucciarati had thought he would just go ahead and tell everyone about Abbacchio's problems, Fugo continued, "I had similar issues after getting my Stand so I know a little about that."

Abbacchio grunted, giving the kid the silence to go on. Fugo placed his hands in his lap carefully.

"Stands are odd things, really. They appear to be a separate entity, but they're really the truest manifestation of ourselves. Which is…why it took me so long to accept Purple Haze. I didn't even name him for weeks. I refused to summon him, but he would come out when I didn't want him to, and I knew I needed to make that stop before he hurt someone." Fugo clasped his hands in his lap, knuckles whitening. "I know it's freaky when your Stand doesn't obey you because they're part of us but…when I stopped fighting Purple Haze, I started being able to control him better. He wasn't as unpredictable, and while I still don't like having to use him in combat, I feel confident enough that I could if I had to." He sighed, pressing his hands between his knees now. "I know how hard it is to confront yourself, Abbacchio. You don't want to go there. It makes you feel sick to think about so you just lock it away until there's nothing left but the facts with none of the messy emotions attached. But our Stands don't have that luxury. They're all the raw, nasty parts of us that we try to hide. But it helps if you embrace that as part of yourself too."

Abbacchio mulled over Fugo's words. The kid always ended up surprising him with his thoughtfulness. "What do you suggest then?" he finally asked.

Fugo turned to meet his eyes. "I think you should give Moody Blues what he wants. What you know you need. You need to confront your trauma, Abbacchio."

Abbacchio's stomach twisted sickly, but deep down, he knew Fugo was right. Maybe if Moody Blues wanted to replay it so badly, he should just let him.

He nodded and stood up. "Thanks, kid. I—I think you might be right."

XXX

He did not want to be here. His lungs tightened and he felt the strong urge to vomit. He gripped the handle on the car door tightly, knuckles white.

Bucciarati parked the car on the side of the road and glanced over at him, watching him calculatingly. "We don't have to do it all tonight," he said quietly. "You can process it slowly, a little at a time."

Abbacchio knew he meant it kindly, but that thought was like torture to him. He shook his head firmly, sucked in a breath and pushed the door open. "No. I just want to get this over with."

Bucciarati nodded and followed him as Abbacchio slowly approached the now abandoned store front. It looked too familiar to that night. He faltered at the door, but Bucciarati pushed forward and opened an entrance in it with Sticky Fingers, leaving no more reason for Abbacchio to hesitate.

"I don't have to stay in here if it will make you more comfortable," Bucciarati said kindly.

This was the last thing he wanted Bucciarati to see, but it wasn't like he didn't know. And really, he'd already seen Abbacchio at his lowest, lower than low. And at the moment he was more scared of himself than he was of his pride being hurt. He didn't really have the monopoly on pride anymore as it was.

"It's all right," he finally managed. "I don't know what this will do, I'd rather have someone there to watch me. Just in case"

Bucciarati nodded then waited for Abbacchio to step inside first.

He took a deep breath and stepped through the zipper hole.

The inside of the building was almost abnormally cold, run down and dirty. Glass crunched under his boot as he walked, forcing every step forward.

When he got to the spot he just stood there. He hadn't been back here since that night. Had avoided it like the plague. His mind did well enough reminding him of things, he didn't need the psychical evidence.

Bucciarati hung back, leaving him there to process or something.

Abbacchio suddenly felt a wave of fury wash over him. He had actually started to think—foolishly—that things were turning around. He'd finally gotten sober, had found new purpose, and then this.

It's you who's doing it. He cruelly reminded himself.

Abbacchio clenched his fists. "You want this? Do it then," he snapped. "Come out and let's get this over with."

His Stand appeared in front of him, a somewhat baleful look on it's strange face.

"Abbacchio," Bucciarati said quietly, taking half a step forward. "Don't push. Just let it happen."

Abbacchio took a shuddering breath and unclenched his hands, trying to push back the anger, the desperation. His faculties honestly weren't great right now considering how little sleep he'd gotten the last week, but if he ever wanted to sleep again…

He exhaled slowly and faced his Stand. "Okay," he said. "Let's do this." He swallowed hard. "Moody Blues…show me."

His Stand needed little bidding to do it. It instantly took the form of his dead partner as the clock on its forehead rolled backward.

This time the whole scene played out line per line.

Hands up, you're under arrest! Abbacchio's voice

Hey! It's you. The weedling voice of that piece of shit. I was so clumsy. Could you act like you didn't see me? Please just let me go I won't cause any trouble.

No! I said you're under arrest.

Hey, think it over carefully. If you arrest me, I'll tell them you took a bribe from me.

The silence, Abbacchio felt his hesitation in that moment, sweat beading down his brow. His hand twitched now as if there were still a trigger under his finger. God how he wished he had just shot.

Hey could you point that thing somewhere else?

Another moment of hesitation and…

"I can't. Stop! Stop the replay!"

Moody Blues paused the replay and Abbacchio took a staggering step backwards, leaning against the wall, panting for breath.

"Just take your time," Bucciarati said from where he stood in the doorway. "Breathe, Abbacchio."

Abbacchio shook his head. "I can't do this…I can't…"

Bucciarati stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders in a firm grip. "You got this far," he said firmly. "Now take a minute to breathe and collect yourself and then go back with a fresh head."

There would be no fresh head in this scenario, but Abbacchio wanted more than anything for this to be over. He nodded jerkily before he realized he was even agreeing, and straightened up. Bucciarati released him and stepped back toward the door.

Abbacchio took a steadying breath and pushed himself off the wall, turning to his Stand again. "Play it."

The recording started again, and there was a brief moment of silence where Abbacchio had made the fateful hesitation, then:

Abbaccio! He has a pistol!

Moody Blues suddenly jumped in front of him, replaying the sounds of gunfire as Abbacchio watched the scene play out yet again.

He stood staring at his dead partner, his Stand—it didn't matter. He was just as frozen as he had been before, trying to get a grip on what had happened. He could hear the criminal's sounds of pain through the recording, and when he shifted he swore he could feel the slipperiness of freshly spilled blood under his feet. He honestly wasn't sure if the scream he heard was from the recording or from him now. Maybe a bit of both.

Exhaustion, pain, and maybe even defeat washed over him and Abbacchio suddenly collapsed on his knees, beside the recreation of his dead partner.

"I'm sorry," he croaked. "God, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this. I'm so sorry."

A sob finally broke free from his chest and Abbacchio bowed over, burying his face in his hands. He almost didn't notice when his Stand ended the replay itself, shifting back to normal form and disappearing.

Bucciarati stepped forward and suddenly crouched in front of him, wrapping arms tightly around Abbacchio's shoulders as he continued to choke out sobs.

"It's okay, Leone," Bucciarati said quietly, resting one hand on the back of his head like some kind of absolution. "It's okay."

XXX

Abbacchio slumped against the window as they drove back to the apartment. He was still so exhausted, but he thought that this time he was just tired. It sounded weird, but it was like Moody Blues was less restless under his skin and it left him feeling more relief than anything.

"How do you feel?" Bucciarati asked after a few minutes of silence.

Abbacchio rubbed a hand down his face. "I won't know until I sleep."

Bucciarati nodded. He was silent for a little longer before he said, "I know that this life is nothing like what you had planned for yourself, but I think that, regardless of that, your partner would have been proud of the man you've become."

Abbacchio looked away, swallowing hard. "I don't know."

"I do," Bucciarati said firmly. "At the end of the day we all fly by our own compasses. It may not be truly just or moral, but I like to think that striving for that is the important part."

Abbacchio exhaled slowly and finally turned to look at Bucciarati, this man who had taken a chance on him when no one else had. "It feels just and moral with you," he said sincerely. "You're a good man, Bucciarati. Never forget that."

Bucciarati looked surprised, glancing over at him before returning to look at the road. "I hope you don't forget that you are too, Abbacchio."

Abbacchio wasn't quite to the point where he believed that, but maybe that day was getting closer.

He was glad when they got back, felt like he would just be able to get back to their apartment. He showered quickly, then staggered into his room, falling face first on the bed. Within minutes, Abbacchio was fast asleep and finally, there were no nightmares waiting for him.