This is a pre-series story set when the gang was just Bruno, Abbacchio and Fugo.

Warning: Abbacchio's alcoholism is prominent to the plot in this one so keep that in mind.

Trust the Process

A JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Fanfic

Chapter One

The sharp pain of light spearing across his eyelids pulled Abbacchio out of his unconscious state. He groaned, fumbling to get an arm across his eyes. Too-loud footsteps pounded toward him along with the scrape and clatter of an empty bottle being retrieved from under the bed.

"Abbacchio," a voice said firmly, and the disappointment in it was obvious.

Needless to say, Abbacchio felt absolutely wretched.

He made an attempt to roll over, away from the voice; maybe he could just die right now and save himself and Bucciarati the trouble. But a hand descended on his shoulder and pulled him back around. At least Bucciarati was blocking the light from the window now, which was a small mercy he probably didn't deserve.

"I'm gone for one night and you fall back into bad habits?" Bucciarati demanded, then sighed. "You were doing so well, Leone."

That hurt. Because Abbacchio knew it was true. He curled slightly into himself, the words churning in his already tumultuous guts.

"I know," he mumbled. He had been. Bucciarati had been doing so much (maybe too much) to try to get him sober, and he was okay when he was busy, but last night he'd been left in the apartment alone, Bucciarati at some party in Polpo's place, Fugo off running some errand, and Abbacchio's mind had turned to things he would rather not think about. As usual. And he'd found himself walking to the corner store and that was the end of the story.

"Then why do you continue to do this?" The frustration was obvious in Bucciarati's voice and he had every right to be upset. Abbacchio was a failure.

He couldn't possibly reply to that though, and instead just lay there, surprised he'd actually made it to bed the night before if he were being honest, even if he was still fully dressed, including his shoes.

Bucciarati sighed again and bent to pick up the empty bottles. "I'm making coffee. We have things to do today." He started out of the room before he turned around and Abbacchio felt his eyes on him, despite hardly being able to see.

"I recruited you into my team because I saw potential in you, I still do," Bucciarati told him. "Do not make me regret my decision, Abbacchio."

And with that he was gone.

Abbacchio swallowed hard. Honestly, if Bucciarati knew what was good for him he would just cut ties with him.

Still, he would have to face the day sometime, and it may as well be now.

So he dragged himself out of bed, put on clean clothes and scrubbed his face with cold water. It didn't do much, especially for the aching in his head and the nausea but he was, more or less, upright.

He staggered into the kitchen and slumped at the table, just as Bucciarati was pouring coffee. Fugo shot Abbacchio a look, but he ignored the kid for now. He knew how awful he looked.

"Glad to see you up," Bucciarati said as if he hadn't already been expecting Abbacchio because he was the leader of their team after all, and if there was work to do, it wasn't like he could just lie in bed all day.

Bucciarati set the coffee on the table in front of Abbacchio, along with a plate of dry toast. His stomach flipped at the thought of putting anything into it, but he pulled the coffee over and took a long sip of it, not bothering to care when it burned his tongue.

"Polpo entrusted a mission to me yesterday," Bucciarati told them as he too sat down. "And I confirmed his suspicions last night while at the party. One of his capos is going behind his back, stealing profit from Passione."

"So that's the reason for the records you had me looking into," Fugo said.

Bucciarati nodded. "He's running illegal bets out of several of his businesses and the organization hasn't seen any of the money. I witnessed an exchange last night at the party which confirmed our suspicions. Polpo has asked me to take him down and find out just how deep his influence goes. We already suspect he might be working with the police, so waiting for him to be taken down with the law is not going to do us any good."

The single bite of toast Abbacchio had attempted to take turned to ash in his mouth. An important job that involved corrupt cops. Fantastic. Just what he wanted to think about right now.

His stomach suddenly just decided to rebel and he surged up, staggering to the bathroom in time to vomit into the toilet.

He could hear quiet voices from the kitchen between retches.

"Are you sure you shouldn't just throw him back out onto the street?" Fugo demanded. "I know his Stand power might come in handy, but other than that he's—"

"Everyone deserves a chance, Fugo."

"You've given him one! And look what he's done with it!"

Abbacchio coughed up another mouthful of bile and spat, resting his aching head against the toilet seat as he wrapped one arm around his middle. This is not how he had wanted the day to go. It wasn't how he'd wanted his life to go either, but that was beside the point.

He stayed there, waiting for the nausea to subside and felt a presence at his back. There was a soft sigh and then the sound of the water in the tap running and a glass was pressed into one of his hands.

Abbacchio dutifully rinsed his mouth and accepted the wet cloth Bucciarati handed him next, running it over his face before pressing it against his eyes, the cooling aspect slightly comforting.

"Why the hell d'you even bother?" Abbacchio mumbled.

Bucciarati shifted, leaning back against the counter. "Because I want to see the man you can be when you get on the other side of this. I told you I see potential in you, Abbacchio. You're a good man."

Abbacchio scoffed, hiding his face in the cold cloth again.

"Your problem is that you don't allow yourself to see that. Take my advice. Find something to hate more than yourself if that helps you, but you need to stop doing this; I can't have you hungover every time we need to go on a mission."

And that was what really punched Abbacchio in the gut, because the one thing he hated more than anything was being useless. He much preferred to take orders than give them, but if he couldn't even manage that then seriously, what good was he? Fugo was right, he should be back out on the street.

"We're going to be leaving in an hour," Bucciarati told him. "Try to get your head together before then. I could use your help on this one."

He left the bathroom and Abbacchio slumped further, but his stomach seemed to have settled at least a little so he flushed the toilet and pushed himself back to his feet, trying to psych himself up for facing the day.

He forced down some coffee and pain pills and felt marginally better by the time they were ready to head out, but he still had to find a pair of sunglasses to wear, head aching dully. He crawled into the backseat of the car without comment as Fugo took the passenger seat.

"So what's the plan, Bucciarati?" Fugo asked as they started off.

Bucciarati kept both hands on the steering wheel as he pulled out into the road. "We're going to look at a warehouse. A lot of Giordano's men have been seen hanging around there and we think that might be where he's running his secret operations from."

"Which include his illegal gambling and trading rackets," Fugo commented, looking through some notes he had brought.

"Exactly," Bucciarati replied. "Polpo and several of the other capos have decided they no longer want to have Giordano around but we need to make sure he's the only one. If anyone else is involved then we need to find out before we can properly illuminate the problem. Abbacchio."

Abbacchio jumped slightly, dragging his head up with a squint to see Bucciarati glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

"I'm going to need you to use your Stand to see who has been around the warehouse."

Abbacchio nodded slowly, then regretted that action as his head swam. He was already not feeling great from the motion of the car, so he slumped back and shut his eyes, trying to will his body to cooperate. Why did he have to be like this?

They made it to the warehouse district and parked around the back of one of the buildings.

Abbacchio felt marginally better now that they weren't moving and he could breathe fresh air. Well, not that fresh. This side of town was pretty filthy. He should know. He hadn't lived too far from here before he'd joined Bucciarati.

They made their way over to the side entrance of one of the buildings and Bucciarati easily opened a zipper inside so they could get in.

It was dark, but luckily, Fugo had brought a flashlight, which he flicked on and shined around the area.

There wasn't much there aside from the crates stacked in one corner, and some broken down machinery equipment.

"You're sure this is the right one?" Abbacchio asked.

Fugo half turned to look at him. "Yes. It's the correct number."

"I doubt they have anything of value here right now," Bucciarati added. "But that's not why we're here. Can you find Giordano with your Stand? All we need to do is place him here and we'll have our proof."

Abbacchio shrugged half-heartedly and summoned Moody Blues. That small surge of energy left him dizzy and he had to grab onto one of the crates to stay upright, watching his Stand flicker in front of him.

Bucciarati gave him a look, slightly concerned, but not without some annoyance sprinkled in. Fugo just scoffed, folding his arms over his chest impatiently. Abbacchio gritted his teeth, trying to breathe through his nose to steady himself.

"Moody Blues," he grunted, and his Stand started to rewind, searching for Giordano's presence.

It was slow going and hard to concentrate. His head only started to ache more and more, when Moody Blues finally engaged with something and started to slowly transform into a man in an expensive suit, miming holding a cigarette in his right hand.

"Got him," Bucciarati said grimly, as he turned to Abbacchio. "Can you replay this so I can hear what he's saying?"

Abbacchio pressed his lips together and rewound Moody several more minutes before letting the replay run its course.

"That's the last of it for now, but another shipment will be coming in Friday night," Giordano was saying. "And then…have to…taken out if…"

The ache in Abbacchio's head was only increasing as the replay continued and he squeezed his eyes shut as Moody started to flicker and the replay began to cut out intermittently.

"Abbacchio?" Bucciarati asked, his hand suddenly gripping Abbacchio's shoulder.

Abbacchio wrenched his eyes open, not having realized he was listing to the side. He swallowed down a fresh bout of nausea and tried to focus on the other man, but Bucciarati was just swimming in front of him, the dots on his suit swirling slightly in a sickening way.

"Sorry," he murmured, trying to shake himself, finally managing to focus for a second again.

Bucciarati's lips were pressed into a tight line and he released Abbacchio's shoulder as if cutting him adrift again.

"We got what we needed. It also seems like there will be another shipment coming in tonight. We'll come back later to catch him in the act."

Abbacchio felt bad for the relief at recalling Moody Blues and slumped, exhausted, hand pressed to his stomach.

"You can't even do your one job now?" Fugo asked snidely.

"Fugo," Bucciarati warned.

"No, he's right," Abbacchio admitted, having no energy or will to feel offended. Especially since it wasn't like he hadn't said worse to himself. He would like to retort and say that he was trying, but was that really true? He hadn't tried all that hard to fight off the urges last night and with this setback, he had a feeling he wouldn't next time either.

Bucciarati sighed, running a hand over his face. He looked tired, and that dug deep into Abbacchio's roiling gut. He was supposed to be here to keep Bucciarati from exhausting himself, so protect his back, and yet so far most of what he had done was make it so Bucciarati had to do more work because he couldn't stop screwing up. After all the weeks they'd already spent with Bucciarati trying to get him clean, trying to help him fight withdrawals, it was like it had all been for nothing. Maybe it would just be better if Abbacchio went back to his old life and drank himself to death. Then he would at least stop being a bother to everyone.

"There's a couple other things I need to look into," Bucciarati said, turning aside, suddenly dismissive. "We should go."

Fugo headed toward the door, leaving Abbacchio to follow at a slower pace. He leaned back in the seat as they drove away from the warehouse district and drifted slightly, trying to force himself to feel better before he felt the car stop, and Bucciarati put it in park.

He opened his eyes, slightly surprised to see they were back at the apartment.

"Abbacchio, go sleep this off," Bucciarati told him.

Abbacchio pushed himself upright. "Bucciarati, I can—"

"Not today," Bucciarati said firmly. "Get clean, and I'll take you on missions again."

Abbacchio's stomach sank, the guilt and hatred directed toward himself were crippling.

He shifted to shove the door open, hand shaking slightly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled and got out, shutting the door behind him, before he could hear any reply Bucciarati might have to his pitiful apology.

He trudged back up to their apartment as the car pulled away from the curb. He should be trying to find something to earn his keep, doing paperwork, looking into information on Giordano from his end, but his head was hurting too much to read or look at Bucciarati's laptop and decided he would probably be better off lying down for a few hours. Useless.

Abbacchio made his way to his small room, taking another pain pill before kicking his shoes and coat off and flopping onto the bed, arm crooked over his eyes as he tried to will the aching sick feeling away. The medicine would do little for him but it was all he could do right now. He thought of the extra bottle he had stashed in the very back of his closet—the only one he hadn't gotten to the night before—but he angrily shoved those thoughts out of his head. He wouldn't touch it. He'd already done enough today.

He curled onto his side, but the curtains were still open and he groaned. He finally pushed himself back up to yank them shut and stood there for a moment in the dim light of the small bedroom.

What was he doing? He shouldn't be here right now, he should be out there with Bucciarati. Fugo was capable, sure, but he was just a kid who didn't even like using his Stand. If they got into trouble…

Abbacchio's hand clenched in the curtains. "You fucking idiot," he hissed to himself before he turned angrily away, crawling back into the bed. He couldn't even find it in himself to repay the man who had taken him off the streets; the only person who had bothered to give him a second chance. Not even his own family, or any of his old coworkers had done that. And here Abbacchio was throwing it all away because the only thing he was capable of doing was fucking up. He should probably quit the team before he got Bucciarati killed too.

"Shit," he hissed into the pillows, burying his face in them as he tried to will himself to sleep. If he could sleep this off, then he might be able to join them later before the stakeout. If only…

Abbacchio finally drifted off, but it was only to nightmares. Ones that cruelly interchanged his partner for Bucciarati, for Fugo, their ghosts accusing him of his incompetence; his partner berating him for getting someone else killed. That fact was, it was the only thing he was good at.

He woke in a sweat, chest heaving as he tried to breathe, sitting up, hunched over his knees, head in his hands. There was black smeared on them when he pulled away and he realized he hadn't even bothered to take his makeup off. Surprised he had even so much as bothered to put it on that morning. Vaguely remembered nearly stabbing his eyes out several times stubbornly applying eyeliner.

He felt even worse than before, hot and uncomfortable, the headache from the hangover turning into a nagging pain that came from craving more alcohol. He could easily make himself feel better with another glass.

Abbacchio shivered in his sweat-soaked skin. He couldn't hear anyone else in the house, figured they were probably still gone, and glanced over at his closet again.

Just a sip. That's all he would take. Just a sip.

With a disgusted resignation, Abbacchio pushed himself out of bed and knelt in front of his closet, rummaging around until he found the bottle stuffed behind several boxes of stuff he'd dragged from his old apartment and still hadn't bothered to find places for yet.

He wrenched the bottle open and just the smell of the alcohol made his body crave it. He hesitated slightly before he brought it to his lips, taking one big swallow and then another, and another.

Just a sip.

Abbacchio forcibly yanked the bottle away from his mouth, some liquid spilling down his chin as he plunked the bottle between his knees, taking a shuddering breath that bordered on a sob.

He couldn't do this. How the hell was he supposed to get better? He wasn't strong enough for this, and it wasn't fair leaning on Bucciarati forever.

"Fucking bastard!" Abbacchio snarled, slamming his fist into the floor, bruising his hand and knuckles. Nausea washed over him that had nothing to do with the alcohol and he forced himself up, heading toward the bathroom.

He looked horrific. Lipstick and eyeliner smeared across his face, eyes blood shot, liquor spilled down the front of his shirt. Disgusting. Abbacchio fought the urge to punch the mirror too—not that it would have mattered. There was already a fracture in it but that one he was pretty sure was from Fugo. No point in adding to it.

"You're better than this," he muttered to himself darkly. No I'm not. "You're fucking better than this," he forced out again.

And he dumped the rest of the bottle down the drain.

It made him feel sick and powerful at the same time.

That was the last of it. No going back now. Abbacchio choked out a pitiful laugh and let the bottle clatter to the floor as he pressed his hands to the counter, holding himself up. He stood there, breathing heavily for a few moments, before he washed his face, and crawled back to bed.

He would finish sleeping this off and then go and join the others. He wouldn't be a failure. He wouldn't fail Bucciarati.

Because if Abbacchio failed another person, he was pretty sure he wouldn't stop drinking next time.