A/N: For the Unzipped week day 1 prompt: injury.
(Also pulling double duty as a fill for the 'Stabbing' square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card. I'm very grateful to this ship week for giving me incentive to finish a couple of outstanding projects; this one's been hanging for two years...)


Clean Through

Pain, bone-deep and searing, flares up in Abbacchio's leg every time he so much as twitches. He tries to stay as still as he can, sure – to keep said twitching to a minimum – but that's easier said than done, being as he's handcuffed to some exposed plumbing and sitting on a concrete floor. Beyond uncomfortable, it's hard not to shift around.

Moving fucking hurts, though, so it's in his best interest to hold still. He has to be careful not to let his leg touch the ground. Who knows what kinds of infections he could get from this shabby basement. The damage that's there is already bad enough…

Damage that he can't stop staring at. Which doesn't do him any favors.

Ignoring pain is hard when you're actively watching the wound. Although, in his defense, there isn't much else to focus on down here except for that knife wedged horizontally into the lower half of his leg, shoved clean through his calf and stuck there. Dribbles of blood leaking out on either side to soak his pants, slow but unnervingly steady.

It was an injury dealt with intent to harm. Puts a huge damper on any escape plot he might come up with.

Abbacchio lets his head clang back against the piping behind him, because at this point, what's one more throbbing ache? Or, rather, an increase in the preexisting throbbing ache in his head…

…At least this flare-up of pain is kind of a distraction from the way his leg is on fire, white hot and sore. Unfortunately, that just means that both problems are now working together to make him dizzy and sick to his stomach.

Good times.

God, he's such a fucking idiot.

This entire situation is his own damn fault, he knows. Details are a little patchy thanks to this headache – a concussion, probably, on top of being tipsy, and isn't that just wonderful – but he remembers enough. A lot of mistakes on his part. Drinking on the job. Strolling back alleys. The fact that he was supposed to be using Moody Blues to ferret out some low-level punks, which means he ought to have waited for backup only he didn't because if he had he wouldn't be here.

Where "here" is, he has no fucking clue. Doesn't quite recall much beyond a sore head, blood on the ground. Kicking out to fight back and being rewarded with this lovely little knife in his calf. Cliché bag over his head during what he assumes was the ride over. Getting cuffed up down here.

And now here he sits. Stuck in a waiting game. Counting on Buccellati and the others to come rescue him, since he's so damn helpless. Here's hoping his body can hold out. Might be easier without this stupid head wound.

At least – Abbacchio's pretty sure it's a head wound and not just a bump. The feel of tacky blood stuck to his scalp and hair is more familiar than he'd like it to be.

There's a sizable puddle of blood beneath his leg, too, and it's growing all the while. Not promising.

On the lighter list of hurts, his cheek and stomach are bruised. Those hurt his pride more than they hurt him, as does the lack of stinging in his knuckles that's usually present after a fight. Because all of it implies that he didn't put up much of a struggle. Just dropped like a sack of potatoes.

These guys aren't even stand users! Taking them down should be easy. If only Abbacchio weren't bleeding out all over the place…

It is, as always, too late to have regrets – but it's not like that's ever stopped Abbacchio before.

…If he were Buccellati, Abbacchio wouldn't bother rescuing someone like himself. Someone who's fucked up this much, and couldn't even finish this one simple job without getting captured by an uninvolved third party.

Buccellati, though, isn't like Abbacchio, and will find him no matter where he is, somehow. Pull out all the stops until he's safe.

And that's. Something that Abbacchio is unsure whether to be grateful for or not. The fact that Buccellati is too kindhearted to leave Abbacchio for dead. Just like he's too genuine in his reputation to allow himself to be bribed with a hostage.

Because that's exactly what Abbacchio's let himself become. A goddamn hostage. Held for ransom.

He managed to glean that much at least. Between overheard mumblings and flat-out gloating in front of him – Abbacchio is a worm on a hook, dangled in front of Buccellati in a pathetic display put on by chump change. Bottom feeders in Passione looking for a quick leg-up via Buccellati's influence with Polpo. A pack of doomed nobodies who got too excited over rumors about Buccellati's soft heart.

They'll wind up beyond sorry they pulled this stunt. It'll only land them in hot water – and Abbacchio never should've let them get this far. They aren't even fucking stand users.

And yet!

Here Abbacchio sits. Hurting and fading on concrete. While only one of those fuckers has maybe a single bruise to show for their trouble.

Ambushes sure are something aren't they? Especially when your guard is as far down as Abbacchio's was. It's shameful as all hell. He deserves to pay some kind of price for that negligence. Maybe his mangled leg counts, all throbbing and angry, making his headache almost pleasant by comparison.

He sure as shit doesn't deserve a rescue. Never has.

But Buccellati will be here. Rescuing Abbacchio nonetheless. Because Buccellati is Buccellati.

Abbacchio just has to hang on in the meanwhile; it's the least he could do. To try his best not to be dead when Buccellati gets here to drag him out.

Not that Abbacchio hasn't tried to get free on his own, busted leg and possible (definite) concussion or no – but Moody Blues' range isn't far enough to be of any real help. The bastards holding him hostage keep their distance, so there's no chance of attacking them, and no matter how hard Moody Blues kicks at the pipes, all Abbacchio gets for his efforts are sore feet.

Fucking hell – his head is pounding. Was he knocked out for a spell? He doesn't remember. Which is probably not good.

Focusing on that headache instead of his leg was a mistake. Abbacchio will now go back to riding that blurry wave of pain between the two. Holding his breath against it. Closing his eyes. Opening them when that makes it worse.

If he concentrates, he can count all of his injuries by feeling alone. The bruise stinging his cheek where someone kicked him in the face. Scrapes on his knees from hitting the ground. Ache between his shoulders thanks to being chained up like this – or maybe someone fucking stomped on him, what does he know? That pounding at the top of his head. Each little nick and dent he got as a result of being dragged across the ground and tossed down some stairs and strung up for ransom bait.

Worse than all of it is the pain in his calf. It's overpowering. And he's pretty sure it's the reason he's sweating, with sickening chills shaking down his spine. That's definitely not a good thing.

Fuck

x

Abbacchio jolts back to awareness – head thick with fog – there's a commotion upstairs – hurts to focus –

– And now his lower leg is alight with fresh fire. Headache roaring to life with a vengeance, throbbing in time with every other little ache. He bites his tongue on a grunt, pushes the pain down and tries to listen. Kicks himself for falling the fuck asleep.

Alarmed shouting from above. That's not in his head, just sends pain lancing through it. The unending series of not-so-isolated thumps are harder to place, almost synchronized with the splitting headache – and that would be because these noises are also aggravating his concussion. Wonderful.

Slowly, his head clears. Things become less-jarring. The pain is easier to sideline.

Abbacchio can guess what's happening, up above him. Relief rushes into his chest no matter how he tries not to jump the gun. There's no need to get his hopes up…

The door to the basement bangs open, someone stumbling down the stairs. The unevenness of their gait gives away that it isn't anyone Abbacchio wants to see – and sure enough it's the knife-happy guy from earlier who staggers into view. Disoriented and frantic. Hopefully bruised from Abbacchio's kick.

Surprise of surprises, he's got a knife clutched in one hand, eyes wild with panic as he rushes Abbacchio.

Seems like these guys aren't in the mood to negotiate anything like a ransom anymore. At least, not with live bait.

Great. Just what Abbacchio needs.

"Buccellati isn't normal!" crazed knife captor guy shrieks (and it'd be funny, under any other circumstances, if Abbacchio were in a better mood) swiping at Abbacchio with his blade. This one is shorter than the one he shoved through Abbacchio earlier, though it's no less sharp, and so therefore not less dangerous and still advisable to avoid.

Abbacchio leans aside to get out of the way, because it's not like this guy has accurate aim right now, panicked as he is by Sticky Fingers' display of power. Hah.

It's good that Abbacchio's rescue suspicions were correct – if only he can survive the next minute

"I bet you're a freak, too!"

Another attempted stabbing, this one slicing into Abbacchio's shoulder when he slides down as far as he can – which was a mistake, because now the guy's looming over him, there's nowhere to go, and get it together, Abbacchio you're just a mess today, aren't you?

"Should've killed you when I had the chance!"

The knife arcs down, going for Abbacchio's face. In desperation, he kicks out with his good leg, unbalancing his attacker. The blade nicks his cheek. He barely avoided losing an eye. Probably.

"You –"

"I think," Abbacchio grunts, "that you need to," he curls up his uninjured leg, grinding his teeth against the way it pulls on the other one, "calm down." With that, he shoves his foot hard into the guy's chest. Shoving him back and down as the asshole trips over his own fucking feet –

Pain erupts on Abbacchio's thigh, as the new, shorter knife buries there to the hilt. Driven by a frantic hand.

Knife guy looks way too pleased from his spot sprawled on the ground. Even starts to yank at the knife, dragging it toward himself and through Abbacchio's flesh, which, fucking hurts fuck goddammit shit

Abbacchio snarls, kicking the man in the head with his bad leg despite searing pain and spots erupting in his vision. God, he's dizzy. Feels sick. He summons Moody Blues to stomp the guy into unconsciousness at last – and, yeah, the feeling reverberates through both of Abbacchio's injured legs, but it's worth it.

…Satisfaction aside, his right leg is screaming at him from being forced to move so much so quickly, and he tries to ignore the black tunneling at the edge of his eyesight. His left leg isn't much better, thigh leaking blood at an alarming rate as it burns-stings-throbs.

He's winded from just that single fight, chest heaving, heart pounding. That also doesn't bode well. His head is spinning. Room tilting around him.

Buccellati better hurry the fuck up.

Even, steady footsteps clamor down the stairs, and Abbacchio shakes his sore head. Tries to focus his blurring vision. From the sound of it, it's no one hostile, but he better keep alert just in case – only, his sight is darkening on its own, and he yanks on the handcuffs at his wrists, maybe he can –

"Leone!"

Ah. Buccellati is here. Falling to his knees next to Abbacchio, and Abbacchio's vision clears back up in time to see him. Right up close, looking barely scuffed. Like he was out on a casual jog at most.

Abbacchio gasps out a sigh of relief. Cool hands are running over his heated face, tucking sweat-slick hair behind his ears and ghosting over various cuts and bruises. He tries to sit up a bit more, to show Buccellati that he's okay – but the problem is that he's not, and it's obvious because he can't sit up.

"Easy, my love," Buccellati murmurs, voice low and warm. "Easy."

And, oh, Abbacchio must look downright awful if Buccellati is breaking out the soothing tones and pet names here.

…It would be a lie to say that it wasn't a comfort. Simply seeing Buccellati is a huge comfort, actually, because it means that Abbacchio is safe and he can finally get out of this grave he dug for himself with his own stupid shovel.

Sticky Fingers is unzipping his handcuffs, and Abbacchio lets his arms come forward. It hurts his shoulders, lances of dull pain across his back and down his arms from being kept bent at an awkward angle for so long and then stretched to their limit during his little skirmish. He grinds his teeth against it, and presses his palms to the floor to help push himself up a bit. Sitting straighter will feel better.

"Don't move," Buccellati says, snappish and businesslike. One of his hands comes to rest on Abbacchio's chest, over his heart. Holding him in place. "I've got you."

"M'okay," Abbacchio insists on a huffed-out breath. Even though he isn't okay and actually very much doubts he would even be capable of standing on his own right now. But it's his fault – no matter how glad he is to be saved. He doesn't deserve Buccellati's fretting.

"No, you're not." Buccellati doesn't buy the lie. He never does. His expression morphs into a sort of dubious concern, cloudy in this damp basement. "I'll zip you up for now, but when we get you home I'm going to clean these properly, okay?"

Agreement is really Abbacchio's only choice here – he'd kill to get out of this place – so he nods, and Buccellati gets to work.

The cut on Abbacchio's cheek is skipped over, Bruno's thumb skirting the very edge of the wound and deeming it minor enough to leave alone. Abbacchio's sliced open shoulder gets zipped up, then, being the least grievous of his grievous wounds. His sore head must be bleeding, too, the stinging along his scalp intensifying as a zipper is inserted there…

And then Buccellati moves further down, attentive hands hovering over the knife still stuck in Abbacchio's thigh.

This one's a bloody mess already, red dribbling out much faster than the other wounds thanks to the way it's been yanked around.

It should probably come out if they want to stop the bleeding. That's something that Abbacchio's ever-lightening head tells him is a very good idea. He's reaching for the knife himself – because Buccellati is hesitating – when Buccellati nudges Abbacchio's hand away and pulls it out in one quick, clean motion.

Abbacchio chokes on a gasp, a spike of sharp pain jolting through him and burning heavy in his thigh. Blood bubbles eager from the wound, filling the hole and starting to overflow, but Buccellati zips it closed before it can drip down in earnest. Leaves red leaking between zipper teeth, trying to escape.

The short pocket knife is stowed away by Sticky Fingers, Abbacchio notes. He kind of wants to ask about that, but Buccellati's already up and shuffling around him, going for the other stab wound. He stops at Abbacchio's right side, crouching into a better position to deal with this leg.

When he gets a good look at the damage, Buccellati sucks in a breath through his teeth. Hisses it out slow. "This isn't going to be pleasant," he warns, in the understatement of a century.

"Looking forward to it," Abbacchio grumbles. This leg is bent a little, the remains of his attempt to keep his calf clear of the floor, and Buccellati tucks a hand under his knee to stabilize that position – Abbacchio can't help how he flinches away at that, a noise escaping him because movement is bad

"Easy," Buccellati soothes, his thumb brushing unbroken skin through Abbacchio's pants.

Abbacchio wants to snap at him, but it comes out as a grunt instead of words. His fingers curl against the floor, arms shaking with the strain of keeping himself upright. Even his leg is trembling, a fresh onslaught of pain coming in waves now, wracking through him.

The second Buccellati touches the handle, it hurts

– And then the knife is tugged out all at once.

A strangled cry claws its way up Abbacchio's throat, and he's pretty sure he blacks out for a moment, feeling sick all the while, head falling back. He knows that Buccellati must be zipping this one up, too, but he can't feel a difference, nor are his eyes focused enough to watch. Vision blurred dark and head fuzzy-sore.

Something soft against his forehead is the next thing he knows, standing out against the hot throbbing in both of his legs, the pain in his head. He only figures out that it's Buccellati's mouth the second time he's kissed there, and tries to lose himself in the small comfort.

"You'll be all right." Buccellati presses another kiss to Abbacchio's forehead. His voice is a little wobbly, unless Abbacchio's hearing is out of order, too.

"Just…" Abbacchio's vision is coming back into focus, but his breath still hitches when he tries to steady it. He doesn't know what he wants to say. Something reassuring, maybe? A shame he doesn't have any words for that.

A gentle shushing sound from Buccellati (god, it would be so easy to sink into him and pass the fuck out) followed by a firm promise. "I'll get you out of here."

And as much as Abbacchio appreciates that sentiment, it means he's going to have to move. Maybe even stand up, and he isn't so fond of that idea in particular. It's doubtful that his legs will support him – if they do it'll be an unhappy business. And there are stairs. His head swims at the thought. Nausea churning in his gut.

Buccellati's careful hands soothe down Abbacchio's neck, one of them trailing to squeeze his uninjured shoulder while the other slips back upward to cradle his jaw.

"Come on," Buccellati's voice is still so gentle, with a trembling undertone. "Can you stand?"

Abbacchio manages a sullen shake of his head. Bruno's hands are warm against him, now. Sleep is sounding better and better. Closing his eyes and stopping everything from the pain in his legs to the spinning in his head. Staying here a little longer won't be so bad if Buccellati keeps those comforting hands against him…

There's a sigh through Buccellati's nose. Not sharp with frustration, no – this is his worried sigh, Abbacchio recognizes it through the fog threatening to overwhelm his brain. Figures he better try and fight his way back through said fog. For Buccellati's sake.

"Can you try?"

Only because it's Buccellati who's asking – a worried Buccellati, no less, how could Abbacchio do this to him? – Abbacchio dips his head in a short nod.

…He also shrugs one shoulder, because, yeah, he'll try, but he is making no promises of success.

"Okay," Buccellati breathes. "Okay…"

Abbacchio does his best to shake off the lingering static from nearly passing out. He owes it to Buccellati to focus now, and help get himself out of his own damn mess.

So he grabs the hands that are offered to him, and sets about hauling himself slowly but surely to his feet. His left leg takes the brunt of his weight, because his thigh hurts to hell and back, but it's nowhere near the lethal agony that's encompassing his right calf, sore to the bone. Torn muscle threatening to give out.

Standing up is enough to leave him winded, and he's leaning heavily on Buccellati as he tries to still the tilting room and catch his breath. His forehead is pressed to a sturdy shoulder, his shaky hands clutching a not-so-white-anymore suit. He fights to swallow any nausea. Stop his brain from whirling dizzy.

Fortunately, Buccellati is standing strong as ever, stabilizing palms pressed to Abbacchio's back. "There you go," he mumbles. He sounds relieved. Soft.

Abbacchio grunts against him, unable to manage much more than that.

"I'll help you walk."

The offer is appreciated, but Abbacchio hates to hear it at all. Because walking is going to be an absolute bitch; his legs are already on the verge of collapse from the simple act of standing. The red-hot throbbing in his calf is so bad he thinks he might be sick. Unless that's the head wound instead. (Both?)

But Buccellati is coaxing him into movement. Nudging his way under Abbacchio's right arm, propping him up all the while. It takes some finagling and Abbacchio almost topples right over twice, saved only by Buccellati's reflexes – but eventually they get a workable position.

Or. One that would be workable, if Abbacchio's legs were in any shape to cooperate.

They start toward the stairs somehow, slow and hobbling – and as they go, Abbacchio notices his attacker on the floor is now only a body, his head having rolled a short ways away after being unzipped at the neck. Serves him right.

Abbacchio feels an overwhelming surge of affection for Buccellati, so strong it almost makes the pain bearable.

…And then there are the stairs.

Climbing them is every bit as bad as Abbacchio had been expecting. He doesn't even make it to the fourth step before his legs crumple beneath him. Refusing to cooperate. Trembling and so fucking sore

All of his wounds are on fire, and when his knees hit the stairs it only gets worse, spreading up his spine, into his head, churning his stomach. He's hauling in air through clenched teeth, trying not to snarl, only barely managing it.

One hand stays fisted in Buccellati's suit jacket, the remains of how Abbacchio had been clinging to him. The other is loose at his own side, fingers twitching.

Buccellati mumbles something that's probably meant to comfort or reassure, but Abbacchio's head is doing too much spinning for him to catch the words and decipher their meaning. He just needs a minute. Will try again, as soon as the room stills.

Walking, painful as it is, shouldn't be this hard. He's done worse. Been hurt worse. He thinks.

Hard to remember right now if that's true, or just wishful thinking.

There's a hand on his cheek, brushing his hair away from where it's stuck to the cut on his face. That mild sting barely registers among everything else. Buccellati crouches into Abbacchio's peripheral.

"Leone," he says, "I've got you, all right? Let me."

And Abbacchio isn't sure what he means at first – until Buccellati's arms start to glow with the outline of Sticky Fingers', and he's scooping Abbacchio up to carry him. Bridal style.

"Don't –" Abbacchio cuts himself off, biting his tongue at the flare-up of pain. It's nice to have his weight off of the injuries – to lean his back into something so soft – but the repositioning of his legs pulls at stab wounds in the worst way and now his calf is just hanging there, draped over Buccellati's arm –

Buccellati starts climbing, and Abbacchio's arms latch on of their own accord, his hands gripping tight to that spotted suit. This stupid fucking head wound – if Abbacchio throws up now, he'll never, ever forgive himself. Has to close his eyes and lay his head down and breathe in the soft scent of cologne-sweat-Bruno to settle his stomach. Much better than that musty basement. Or the metallic tang of blood.

Abbacchio's got half a mind to protest being carried. But only a small half. Hard to care much between the hurt and the sick and the fact that he…really doesn't mind being carried. By Buccellati.

The stairs go much smoother, now, and from the top of them it's only a short trek through the rest of the building to get to the exit.

As they go, Abbacchio can't help but peek. Crack his eyes open and take in the parade of dismembered corpses littered throughout. Zippered apart chunks line their path like ugly misshapen paving stones.

"You had fun," he mutters.

This close, he can practically feel the way Buccellati's jaw tenses at that, and how his mouth presses into a thin line. "They kidnapped one of their own and tried to cheat their way to a higher standing." He steps delicately over an abandoned arm. "'No mercy for traitors' was Polpo's order."

An order that Buccellati carried out to the letter. It seems.

There's…a lot loaded into that, Abbacchio can tell. He's in no position to start unpacking it right this second, though. He makes a mental note to talk to Buccellati once they get back, and Abbacchio is no longer drowning in this useless muddied head…

Outside, Narancia is waiting by the car. Abbacchio is kind of surprised to see him, but it only makes sense. The kid's a good lookout. Handy when it comes to tracking people down.

…And right now, he's bouncing on the balls of his feet. Aerosmith's radar is over his eye as the stand itself zips around with just as much restless energy as its user.

Narancia freezes the moment he catches sight of, "Abbacchio –!"

"Shut up," Abbacchio forces through his grinding teeth. The last thing he wants is Narancia worrying over him. It's not his responsibility, not at all anything Abbacchio deserves – and that sympathetic look Narancia is giving is about all Abbacchio can take.

For whatever reason, Narancia does indeed shut up. Goes pale as he scrambles to open the back door of the car.

And then Buccellati lowers Abbacchio as carefully as possible into the backseat. There's no way to do this without aggravating something, and every tiny movement jars at least one of Abbacchio's hurts –

So he resettles. Swallows hard around recurring flare-ups of pain.

The seat is softer than concrete, at least. (But not as soft as Buccellati.)

Trying in vain to relax, to focus on the warm interior of the car and the memory of being huddled to Buccellati's chest, Abbacchio is doing his damndest to steady his breathing. It won't stop hitching, no matter how slowly he sucks it in. Always escapes on a shaky sigh.

Fuck.

Everything hurts. He's a mess of sore stinging throbbing all over. He has to close his eyes again, and leans his aching head back against the headrest. Hopes they don't hit too many potholes or he really will be sick.

Soft lips linger against his temple, and he might even whimper at the welcome contact.

Buccellati strokes his hair one more time – meant solely as a comfort, apparently, because not a single strand was in Abbacchio's face – and then the door is shut. Abbacchio watches through lowered eyelids as Buccellati walks around the car, headed for the driver's seat.

Narancia, meanwhile, slips into the back next to Abbacchio. Does not take up the coveted shotgun position. "If you wanna sleep on me, you can," he offers, voice soft.

Hah. Abbacchio really must look bad. Is fighting a losing battle against sleep. Or passing out?

Same difference.

"Watch the road," he grumps at Narancia. Because there he goes again, worrying over Abbacchio when it's supposed to always be the other way around. Never like this.

"But I'm not driving…?"

"He means," Buccellati explains, starting the car and wasting no time in peeling out – shit, Abbacchio has to close his eyes, blurring streetlights aggravate his headache – "that you need to keep your radar running and make sure we're not being followed."

"Got it!"

That's the last Abbacchio hears before his head lolls onto Narancia's shoulder, and consciousness leaves him.


A/N: There's a second chapter to this, and if all goes well, it'll be up by the end of the week-!

Thanks for reading,