Chapter Four

Abbacchio was able to get back to the apartment, but by that time, Bucciarati was completely unconscious. The man was stubborn, but it seemed even he had his limits and blood loss was always a heavy hitter.

Abbacchio didn't know what else to do—aside from taking Bucciarati to the hospital where he probably should be—so he simply heaved him over his shoulder and carried him up to the apartment, his own shoulder protesting slightly. It seemed odd, this sudden role reversal. Of course, it wasn't like Bucciarati was drunk off his ass, he'd just lost too much blood.

He left the man curled in the too-small tub in the bathroom before going to check on Fugo who was sleeping restlessly, the blankets tangled around him. It was probably about time for another dose of pain medicine anyway.

"Fugo," Abbacchio said, gently touching his wrist.

The teen's eyes shot open, and he looked frantic, scared, as if just pulled out of a nightmare. Then he blinked, seeming to come back to himself.

"Abba—"

"I got Bucciarati," Abbacchio told him without preamble. "I've gotta patch him up, but I wanted you to know he's okay."

Relief passed over Fugo's face and he sank back against the pillows. "Do you…need any help?"

Abbacchio shook his head. "No, just rest for now. I'm sure he'll want to see you later. Here, time for more of these." He handed Fugo the pills and a glass of water and Fugo shakily took them and laid down, eyes closed.

Abbacchio pulled the blankets back over him and thought he was already asleep, but as he turned around to head back to Bucciarati he heard a faint, "Abbacchio. Thank you."

He turned, but the kid seemed to have passed out again and he actually wasn't entirely sure he had even heard that after all.

He had to gather all the first aid stuff from the living room where he'd left it earlier in his hurry and once he did, he returned to the bathroom to tend to Bucciarati's injuries.

He set everything out, washed his hands, and started the process of peeling away Bucciarati's blood-soaked clothing.

He didn't dare cut the expensive suit even though he wasn't sure it could be recovered. He knew Bucciarati only owned two. He did have good tailors, though. So he set the suit aside with the intention of attempting to wash the blood out later. This is why he always wore black. Less chance of staining.

He couldn't help but notice all the accumulated scars Bucciarati had as he cleaned the blood from around the injuries. And he was, what, only a year younger than Abbacchio, not even? He'd told Abbacchio what had happened to get him into the life, but he supposed he hadn't expected him to actually have been going into potentially life-threatening situations the whole time. Not the kind that give you scars like this, too old for someone so young.

Not that Abbacchio didn't sometimes envy the thought of physical scars. They covered up better with makeup than his own.

He pushed those thoughts away. They were all here because they'd had their lives fucked up somehow. It wasn't normal circumstances that had brought them here. Just bad hands dealt to them.

It was a lot easier to dig out the bullets with Bucciarati unconscious, not to mention the fact that Abbacchio's hands were finally starting to get steadier. It was a temporary blessing, he knew, caught between the point where he was no longer hungover, and not yet suffering badly for craving his next drink. He hoped he could get Bucciarati through the worst of his recovery before he completely crashed. It's not like he had anyone else with Fugo down for the count as well.

For the second time that day he pulled out the forceps, cleaned them thoroughly and forced himself to breathe steadily as he slipped them into the bullet hole.

Blood bubbled up, obviously, dripping down over his hand where he had it clenched around Bucciarati's upper arm to hold him still.

Flashes of the warehouse suddenly slammed into him, once again mistaking it for that store that would haunt his nightmares forever, Bucciarati in the place of his partner on the ground, blood pooling around him, splashing across Abbacchio's face.

His forceps slipped, drawing a sound of pain from Bucciarati, the man twitching under his hold, and Abbacchio forced himself to focus, taking a shaky breath. It was just blood. He'd seen enough of it. Bucciarati was bleeding, that was good, that meant he was alive. It was just a little blood.

He could still feel the impression of the gun's trigger on his finger. This had been the first time he'd touched a gun since the incident. He didn't really know what to think about that, but, he'd gotten the shot off, hadn't let his trauma affect that, thank god. Hadn't even thought of anything between the gunshots but the fact that he needed to take those bastards out before they took Bucciarati from him too.

Maybe that was character development. Abbacchio felt he had been doing all too much of developing his character today. He was exhausted.

Thankfully, the patching up didn't take too long. Bucciarati only made several small sounds of pain, twitching slightly during the procedure, but luckily neither of the bullets seemed to have been deep or done any irreparable damage, and aside from the blood loss, Abbacchio was pretty sure he would make a full recovery. If he could keep Bucciarati off his feet for long enough to actually heal.

After flushing the wounds and getting them firmly bandaged, he set about lifting Bucciarati from the tub. He and his injured shoulder had found out the hard way that Bucciarati looked slim, but he was solid. Still, it was the least he could do after Bucciarati himself had dragged Abbacchio's unwilling ass out of this tub on more than one occasion after a cold shower. Though Abbacchio did try to be considerate of his injuries as he did so. This role reversal was still sending him for a loop.

He found Bucciarati's pajamas and carefully wrestled him into the pants, not wanting to risk reopening the wound on his shoulder to get his shirt on. Instead he piled extra blankets on top of Bucciarati to keep him warm after the blood loss. He coaxed him into brief cognizance to take some pain medicine and drink some water, and then just stood there, staring at him.

He broke himself out of the trance after a few long seconds and simply reached out to feel the pulse in Bucciarati's throat. It was still there, thrumming under his fingertips. He hadn't actually screwed this up. He might need to keep reminding himself of that, but for once, he actually had, amazingly, done the right thing.

Catching sight of gold glinting in Bucciarati's black hair, he hurried to remove the hairclips that had been partially pulled out during his kidnapping. They couldn't be comfortable. As Bucciarati's hair fell out of its usual braid, some of it falling over his face, Abbacchio thought he looked a lot younger like this. Hair down, sleeping—or unconscious. Abbacchio wondered if he ever looked his age. He often felt so old, and yet, it was Bucciarati who always acted like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It was the trickle of blood down the back of his arm that reminded Abbacchio of his own injury. He reluctantly left Bucciarati and headed back to the bathroom. He stripped to the waist and tried to clean the injury as well as he could. It was on the back of his shoulder and it wasn't exactly easy to get to, but it was only a graze and he managed to clean it well enough over the sink before taping some gauze over it. At least he hadn't had to dig a bullet out of himself too.

He headed back to his room to grab a clean tank top and sweatpants, then went to check on Fugo and Bucciarati again. Both of them were sleeping. He hesitated. He should probably make something to eat for when they woke up. He should probably eat something.

So Abbacchio busied himself in the kitchen, putting together a soup. It wasn't great, he didn't profess to being a good cook, but it was something. And he even managed to eat some of it, which did actually help to settle his stomach.

He put the rest away and went back to Bucciarati's room, seeing that the man seemed to be slightly restless. Abbacchio checked his temperature on the backs of his knuckles, but he didn't seem to be fevered. A little clammy, maybe. He tucked the blankets back around him firmly, and then just suddenly felt like someone had cut all his strings.

Abbacchio sank slowly to the floor, resting his back against the bed, knees tucked up to his chest. Everything was just…a lot. Too much maybe. He was still processing everything and dealing with his own inevitable crash. He didn't know how much use he would be the next few days and that scared him, but he was also determined not to drink again. He couldn't let this happen again. He knew that, and Bucciarati had made that clear as well.

He lowered his head into his hands with a shaky breath. They were starting to shake again, the headache coming back. Soon he would start feeling even worse; he knew this from the other botched attempts at getting sober, but he would endure. He had to. He wasn't alone anymore. He had people who counted on him to be there to watch their backs, and Abbacchio refused to let them down.

That night he watched of Bucciarati and Fugo, and the next day he took the call from Polpo while Bucciarati was still unconscious.

"Ah, you're his new team member," Polpo said. "I remember you. I got the note you left. Come give me your report later if Bucciarati is still unable to do so. I've sent another of my men out to handle the rest."

Abbacchio felt relief at that, and reluctantly went to the prison to make his report to Polpo later, trying to look as presentable as possible despite his rapidly deteriorating state. Polpo eyed him the entire time, but didn't make any comment on it. Before Abbacchio left, the giant Capo left him with some parting words, "I'm impressed with how you handled the situation. I think Bucciarati chose well."

Abbacchio wasn't so sure but he wasn't about to refute what the capo said, so he took his leave and hurried back to care for his team members.

When Bruno finally woke, he felt like he had been asleep for days. Maybe he had? His body ached, especially around his shoulder and knee, and his eyes felt cemented shut, but he pried them open to the dim light of early morning, half blocked by a figure sitting in front of the window, at his bedside.

Abbacchio hunched there, hair tied back, dark circles under his eyes where eyeliner would usually have been. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, one leg bouncing.

Bruno shifted, in some attempt to sit up and Abbacchio's eyes were suddenly on him, widening.

"Bucciarati," he exclaimed already out of his seat, reaching out to help prop him up, before he pulled his hands back and clenched them into fists as if to hide the shaking Bucciarati had clearly felt.

"How…how are you feeling?" he asked, eyes portraying his worry.

"A little early to tell," Bucciarati croaked.

Abbacchio hurriedly handed him a bottle of water, and Bucciarati dutifully drank it.

"There's soup too; you've been out for about twenty-four hours now," Abbacchio told him.

Bucciarati drank some more. Not as bad as he thought. Still, he had an inordinate amount of work to do now and so much to clean up.

"Do you have my phone? I need to make calls."

Abbacchio shook his head. "Everything's already been handled, I brought Polpo up on the situation and he had someone else go in to finish and clean Giordano's operation up."

Bruno stared at him in surprise. "You did?"

"Didn't know how long you would be out," Abbacchio mumbled.

Bruno watched as he started to bite a fingernail. "And Fugo?"

"Recovering. He was in here a couple hours ago."

"And you?"

Abbacchio's head snapped up. "What the hell does that matter? I didn't get shot."

Bruno sighed, pointedly looking down at Abbacchio's shaking hands. "You haven't had another drink, I take it."

Abbacchio bit his lip, clenching his hands tighter in his lap. "I—I've been trying really hard. I know…I know this whole thing was my fault. I'm really gonna try this time, and I mean it."

"Leone," Bruno said and Abbacchio looked up sharply at him using his given name. "Listen to me. You did well."

Abbacchio's eyes widened further. "I—but I got—"

Bruno shook his head. "No. This wasn't because of you, we were ambushed. In fact, you not being there was what saved us, I believe."

"You both almost got killed."

"I've had closer calls via my own mistakes," Bruno assured him. "Don't forget that you got both Fugo and me out of this situation, alone. I'm well aware of how hard it was for you."

Abbacchio's head dipped and his shoulders slumped further inward, body trembling as his lip curled. "I don't deserve the praise."

Bruno sighed. "One of these days you'll have to stop hating yourself."

Abbacchio's hands clenched in his lap so tight that the knuckles whitened.

"How about we start now?" Bruno told him, reaching out to grip his shoulder.

Abbacchio looked up and a plethora of emotions passed over his eyes before he finally nodded.

It wasn't easy. Abbacchio felt like absolute shit for days, mostly confined to his bed, trying not to lash out every time someone offered him anything but the one thing he craved. but once he got past a certain point it did become easier. Black coffee became a better substitute to fix the constant headaches, he could eat without instantly wanting to throw it back up again, and though he knew it would take more than this to fix his self-hatred, he had to admit that even he was proud of himself for enduring long enough to see this through.

After a week of hell and another week of being tentatively sober, Abbacchio felt stronger. After a month, Bucciarati and Fugo presented him with a celebratory dinner that embarrassed the hell out of him, but also made him feel warm inside, eternally grateful for his small team that he actually felt worthy to be a part of now.

Fugo finally pulled him off to one side, an uncomfortable look on his face. "Look, I know I wasn't always kind to you but…"

"You don't have to apologize," Abbacchio assured him. "I know I was a dick, and I hated that me too."

Fugo gave him a look of understanding. "I just want to say that I think you're a good man, Abbacchio. And I never really got the chance to thank you for saving me. And for saving Bucciarati." He glanced over at the man who was washing some dishes in the sink. "I owe him my life."

Abbacchio nodded. "Me too."

Fugo let out a long breath. "Basically, I'm really glad you decided to join us. I think you're a good addition to the team."

Abbacchio actually smiled. "That means a lot coming from you," he admitted.

And it did. This team as a whole meant everything to him. Something he never thought he would have again. But maybe second chances really were a thing. And maybe he needed to start believing in them again.