A/N: Some extra caretaking, :")
Feat. more first aid with and without zippers.


Pain is what wakes Abbacchio up, this time.

His left thigh is on fire, something burning a hole through muscle – tearing deep right to the bone

Trying to pull away from whatever the source is only makes it worse, hurt spreading through the rest of him, flaring thick and pounding in his head. Steady-warm hands grab hold of his leg, keeping it still, and a familiar voice is murmuring something. Low and quiet. Words trickle in through the fog.

Breath hitching, Abbacchio cracks his eyes open – and it feels like someone's driving a knife through his skull. Brilliant light dazzles him in a bad way. He squeezes his eyes back shut. Groans.

Tries not to fucking puke.

Whatever was hurting his thigh stopped, he realizes just in time for it to start back up again, hands holding him pinned while a pressurized stream of something shoots into deep-broken skin –

Ah – that's right –

He was stabbed. Chained up in a basement. Fading live bait for…

"Easy," Buccellati murmurs, "just a little more, you're okay…" His voice is soft. Soothing against this awful sick all-over throbbing that Abbacchio can't shake.

It's the only comfort he's got, along with that hand above his knee. Now that he knows who it belongs to, the warm brand of it there is wholly soothing. Doesn't feel confining anymore. And there's the tangible heat radiated by Buccellati himself, where he's knelt between Abbacchio's legs. Meaning that –

Argh – fuck – it's hard to think. Hard to focus, his head stuffed with barbed cotton and his thigh burning in protest. Sweat beads on his forehead. He's hot and cold all at once. Can't stop the trembling in his limbs.

Focus. He has to focus.

Buccellati is here, helping. With gentle touches and soft words against all of the discomfort.

Finally, the water-based assault on Abbacchio's thigh ceases, and Sticky Fingers starts zippering the wound closed. One of Buccellati's hands stays pressed above Abbacchio's knee while the other situates itself higher on his thigh, above the injury. They hold him steady through the zipping process – some kind of sophisticated bandage-and-stitches replacement that starts deep and fastens broken muscle-tissue-skin back together.

It kind of hurts. A dull, fading sort of pain. Nothing like the horrible fire from earlier. Abbacchio can swallow this down. Breathe deep and try again to open his eyes…

He moves slower this time, only prying his eyelids apart enough to peer out at the world between his eyelashes (that are no longer painted dark with mascara, he notes). The blurred but familiar shapes of his bathroom come into sluggish focus, everything too brightly-lit. Increasing awareness tells him he's in the bathtub. A little cold, stripped down to his underwear as he is. Courtesy of Sticky Fingers, probably.

That selfsame stand finishes stoppering up the gaping wound on Abbacchio's thigh at last, and he forces himself to glance at it. Has to squint, against the light glinting off that crooked zipper left in place.

And. Then there are hands on his face, and he doesn't want to bother with the hassle of focusing on anything other than Buccellati. Warm and calloused palms pressed to Abbacchio's jaw with fingers reaching into his hair, splaying across his cheeks. Blue eyes and tan skin and dark scruffy eyebrows and that tense set of Buccellati's mouth.

A soothing sight, no matter how out-of-focus it is.

"Leone," Bruno is saying, blessedly quiet, "are you awake?"

Abbacchio tries to open his eyes wider in reassurance – only to grunt on a wince as the room tilts. That'll have to do as far as answers go. His tongue is thick and uncooperative in his mouth, and his throat is perpetually dry, no matter how he swallows.

"Do you know where you are?" is the next question. One that requires a verbal response. Delightful.

Only because this is Buccellati who's asking, Abbacchio fights hard against his blurring vision. Doesn't dare try to sit up straighter, but he does take a deep breath. Clears his scratchy throat as best he can, but the words still come out strained rough. "My bathroom." (And boy is he happy he wasn't awake while being settled here.)

Head dipping on a nod, Bruno seems to be trying for a small smile. He doesn't manage more than a twitch to the corner of his lips. The longer Abbacchio looks at him, the easier it is to spot the fatigue around his eyes.

"What's your birth date?"

Ugh, how cruel. Making Abbacchio remember the origin of his bullshit existence. "March 25th, 1980."

"And I'm…?"

Hah. That's a stupid question.

No matter how concussed Abbacchio might be, there's no forgetting Buccellati.

"You're Bruno," Abbacchio mumbles, sinking further down and wincing when it aggravates his wounds – but. He's got Buccellati's relieved sigh puffing soft over his cheek, and an attentive hand stroking down the center of his chest. It is impossibly comfortable, against everything else. A point of contact that Abbacchio clings to. He lifts a shaky palm of his own to settle over that hand, runs his fingertips across Buccellati's knuckles.

A soft, "You'll be all right," from Buccellati. Trying to convince himself just as much as Abbacchio, probably. "Just a little more to clean, and then you can rest." The hand on Abbacchio's chest glides higher, presses to the side of his neck, where it cradles his head. A move that helps with his headache.

…As does that kiss pressed to his sweaty forehead. Pillowed lips catching baby hairs that Buccellati nudges away with his nose – just so he can drop another kiss there, unimpeded.

Abbacchio's eyes flutter closed. He breathes in Buccellati and blood-tinged air.

That gentle mouth on his forehead offers an extreme contrast to the sharp twinges of pain that radiate from Abbacchio's calf. Sensations play tug-of-war with his focus, keeping him caught between Buccellati and misery. It's a space Abbacchio wishes was comfortable enough to pass out in.

Too bad it's not, and he's stuck awake. Words dripping sloppy from his weak mouth, but he has to know: "What's left?"

Buccellati hums out an inquisitive noise, bracing his hand at the base of Abbacchio's skull. His lips and nose are at Abbacchio's temple, now, skirting his hairline with sweet attentions. Delicate and warm and a distraction that Abbacchio tries desperately to throw himself into.

Another swallowed mouthful of saliva or two, and Abbacchio is able to elaborate. "Which ones didn't you clean?" The words still feel wrong leaving his mouth – but it's better than nothing. Coherent, at least.

"This cut on your head," ah, so it is a head wound after all, "and your calf." Well shit.

Scoffing in this state turns into a couple of coughs that rattle their way through Abbacchio's throat. He swallows, and chances opening his eyes once more. It's easier, this time. Even if it still makes his head hurt. "Wish I'd slept through all of it."

The soft puff of air that leaves Buccellati's nose barely qualifies as a laugh. It manages to sound too mournful in tone for that. "Me, too," he says. All of his fingers are massaging gentle at Abbacchio's scalp, now…

God – he's too wonderful. Abbacchio doesn't deserve this. Should've been left to rot. Always should be left to rot.

"I'll be as quick as I can," Buccellati promises, voice gentle –

And then he puts horrible distance between them.

He shuffles backward on his knees, his hands easing free of long white hair as he goes – and oh, hell, he's as stripped down as Abbacchio is. Only wearing tight boxer briefs and that lacy undershirt of his, the one that overlays his tattoo just right. Compliments the soft cut of his muscles.

It's one hell of a distraction from the pain. Buccellati is easier on Abbacchio's sore eyes than anything he's ever seen – especially easier than anything else in this stark bathroom right now.

Situated at the far end of the bathtub, Buccellati lets one palm rest on Abbacchio's right ankle, well below that gruesome stab wound. There's blood smeared over Abbacchio's enflamed skin, staining the zipper on both sides. Dribbling lazy streaks into the tub itself.

Buccellati doesn't seem to mind sitting there in the mess. "I'll start with this one," he says, his hand grazing warm up Abbacchio's shin. "All right?"

Abbacchio nods.

As much as he wishes this didn't have to happen, he trusts Buccellati to do it above anyone else.

Fucking – shit. What the hell is wrong with Abbacchio – letting himself be cared for so fucking – tenderly – after the way he fucked up – this type of negligence should get him dumped at some doctor's. Not…

His eyes are going hot. Abbacchio takes a deep breath and braces himself.

No matter how gentle Buccellati's hands are, it still hurts like a bitch when he curls his palm beneath Abbacchio's knee to bend his leg up, positioning it just so. It's at a better angle to flush the wound like this, sure, but that doesn't mean it's fun. Abbacchio is grabbing for both sides of the tub – his hands going white knuckled –

He regrets that move when his shoulder wound pulls. Drops that left hand back into the tub. Breathes all the deeper. Is already shaking and Buccellati hasn't even started yet.

Very, very slowly, the surface zippers on either side of Abbacchio's calf are undone. Sticky Fingers is dissolving them with care while Bruno murmurs more sweet words that Abbacchio fights with. Wants to repel them. Wants to soak them into his skin and leave them there, rubbed in to moisturize and soothe.

Once the zippers are gone, fresh blood leaks eager from the wound. Abbacchio can feel it, trickling down toward his foot, almost ticklish – but then Buccellati presses a towel in – wrapped around both sides –

Pushes hard

And Abbacchio is grunting again. Grinding his teeth rough together as his head falls back and his breath hisses in and out sharp.

"Easy…" Buccellati's voice is barely audible above the pounding in Abbacchio's brain. "I've got you."

Those simple words send a flush of warmth through Abbacchio's chest. At odds with the agony in his leg, a tearing sort of pain that's like a thousand bruises lit on fire or some shit – like the knife is being driven through him all over again, slicing muscle, severing veins, drawing blood, poking out the other side. Abbacchio is shaking with the effort to hold still. Pulling away will hurt worse.

There are no more gentle sentiments from Buccellati to distract him. Gentle touches aren't possible with Buccellati's hands busy on that towel.

It's alright. Nothing is strong enough to distract from pain like this, anyway.

The only thing for it is to stop the bleeding, seal it up, and hope it helps. Buccellati knows this. Keeps firm pressure no matter how Abbacchio shifts while sinking further down.

His head is throbbing. The bruise on his stomach is acting up sore and that zipper on his thigh is pulling awkward and he's whimpering out a pathetic noise on automatic because he accidentally jostled that leg and made everything worse. Fuck. How long has it been since Buccellati started?

Abbacchio…needs something. Grasps at straws.

"Where's –" Pressure is removed from his leg and he gasps, vision wavering. More blood trickles out, blurry-red to his eyes, but he can feel it.

Buccellati wraps the towel firm to Abbacchio's calf anew and holds it as tight as he can with just one hand. With his other hand, he presses fingers under the bend of Abbacchio's knee. Some kind of trick to help stop the bleeding.

Abbacchio has to close his eyes for a handful of seconds to fight off a wave of pain-induced nausea. Only opens them to stare at the ceiling. Then Buccellati's hair, when that's too bright.

"…Where's Narancia?"

See? There's more proof that Abbacchio's not too badly concussed. He's got the vague memory of that bony, freckled shoulder under his cheek on the car ride here. (More mortifying comfort that Abbacchio shouldn't have taken advantage of, but now is not the fucking time to worry about that. He should save the shitty feelings for later. Everything hurts right now.)

"Asleep on the couch," Buccellati says. It just figures that kid would hang around… "He didn't want to leave you." Tired eyes land on Abbacchio, Buccellati's mouth quirking an almost-smile.

"Stupid kid," Abbacchio grunts, full of all the fondness he doesn't have the energy to hide.

Buccellati hums out his agreement while easing the towel away bit by bit – it's a move that feels better at first, until all that old pain comes rushing back in, flaring up with a vengeance, and Abbacchio has to hold his breath again. Has to stare only at Buccellati, from behind heavily lidded eyes that want to close just as much as they crave a distraction to cling to.

Those bare shoulders dip, straps of Buccellati's lingerie going loose along his collarbone with the motion. He lets out a quiet sigh. Relieved, Abbacchio guesses, and only moves enough to confirm that he's not bleeding anymore.

Of course. Now that the bleeding's stopped. Cleaning is step two.

Which happens to be Abbacchio's least favorite part of this shit. Because it's the most uncomfortable by far, and oh, good, Buccellati made extra saline just for this purpose –

Focus on Buccellati. Just…keep thinking only of those careful hands lifting Abbacchio's leg and ignore the way they're sending jolts of sharp pain through his calf. Zero in on smooth thighs that prop him in a better position, angling until his knee bumps cold porcelain. Concentrate on the brush of cotton against his leg hair as Buccellati's ass meets Abbacchio's other calf, when he settles sitting sideways. Wedged between Abbacchio's legs.

…Not bad, as distractions go.

Fingertips land light on Abbacchio's knee, not even daring to rub. "Ready?"

All Abbacchio can do is nod. Except, even that hurts – so instead he mutters out, "Yeah." Braces himself, slumping against the tub at his back and takes a deep breath. Eyes on Buccellati so he'll know when it's coming –

Fuck, yep, there he goes!

Saline poured over torn sliced flesh has Abbacchio grinding his teeth and holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut.

It's an echo of that steady burning in his thigh. Only worse. Reddened liquid is dripping straight through Abbacchio because there's fucking nothing there. Just a stabbed-open hole in his leg. Exposed muscle and tissue and whatever-the-fuck else is in there that sets off so many pain receptors that Abbacchio can't even feel his pounding headache swirling nausea bruises cuts zippers –

Then it stops, and a pathetic sort of whine slips out of his throat. He's pretty sure he's swallowing down bile. Doesn't know which source of hurt to blame for that.

"Shh…" Buccellati soothes. There's red-tinted saline soaking his thighs. He doesn't seem to care.

He's too busy patting Abbacchio dry with a clean towel. Dropping a featherlight kiss to his shin, while holding his ankle still with warm, rubbing fingers. They're trying to massage the pain away; every move Buccellati makes is with comforting intent – but all of it is only making Abbacchio's eyes go hot. Tears from bitterness or pain gather and he makes another noise. Mournful and low.

Dropping his head back helps ease the ache there, if he does it slowly. That wound on the crown of his head throbs unhappy. He presses a hand over his eyes to shut out more light, basking in comfortable dark.

Buccellati and Sticky Fingers are giving this wound the same zippering treatment they gave the others, the one on Abbacchio's shoulder included, by the tugging feel of it. They're thorough in their work, a pulling pinch that's piecing him together…an anatomy book close at hand, probably, to make sure everything is reconnected properly…

"Almost done, my love." Buccellati's hands are gentle as ever, his legs shifting smooth beneath Abbacchio's.

In response, Abbacchio barely manages a grunt. He kind of wants to reach out and fall into the waiting comfort that is all of Buccellati, but he's too dizzy. Too wary of starting up more pain – and this is his own fault in the first place, that he's wound up like this, so – he shouldn't. Take.

When the last zipper is fastened into place on his calf, it dulls the hurt there to something more bearable. It's not anything he wants to walk on, mind. But it's better. Makes it easier to breathe.

Continuing the trend of slow care that Abbacchio does not deserve, Buccellati's steady-soothing hands lower that sealed-up leg back to lying almost flat in the tub. Abbacchio chances cracking his eyes open to watch; lets his hand fall away from his eyes, and slumps all the more boneless where he lies. Sleepy and sore and staring at Buccellati, who's shifting onto his knees.

A hand reaches out, warm fingers brushing along Abbacchio's jaw. "Just a little more, and then you can rest."

And Buccellati is so earnest in that – that Abbacchio can't – he's –

He's falling to fucking pieces right here, pinned by that tender gaze. That weak smile that Abbacchio would die for. Those helping hands that just won't leave him be, that have never left him be.

Buccellati moves again, this time standing up in the tub. His legs are still a little stained with Abbacchio's blood – something he still doesn't seem to mind. He just…plucks shampoo and conditioner from their home on the inlaid shelf and sets them on the corner of the tub behind Abbacchio. He has to bend in close to do so. The scent of him is a comfort. The warmth of so much familiar skin…

Fuck, Abbacchio is so tired.

He's being nudged forward by hands at his shoulders that guide him to sit free of the tub, and he grumbles out a noise of protest. Hates the way the room swims as he's moved. Has to close his eyes.

All the while Buccellati steps around behind Abbacchio, he murmurs more sweet shit. All, "Easy, my love, easy," and, "I've got you…"

Slowly, Abbacchio is guided to lean against Buccellati's legs, and the firm support they offer is more welcome than anything. Might as well be the world's most plush mattress, as far as Abbacchio is concerned.

Then there are hands in his hair. Fingertips careful atop his head to shift aside strands here and there, starting up a stinging along that section of his scalp. He holds still, hisses a gasp through his teeth.

"Leone," Buccellati says, his fingers paused, "do you remember how you got this cut?"

"Nn." A negative noise is all Abbacchio can manage. His eyes are fluttering open-then-shut. He feels weak, flimsy in the best-worst way.

A quiet huffing sort of sound from Buccellati, and he's nudging through Abbacchio's hair again, fingers catching on tacky drying blood as they investigate (while aggravating Abbacchio's headache.) "There's glass in here," Buccellati announces. He sounds mildly appalled by the notion. "I think they hit you with a bottle."

Oh.

That's shitty.

"Bastards."

Buccellati hums in agreement. One of his thumbs soothes down the back of Abbacchio's head, well away from the swollen gash atop it. "Wait here…"

As if Abbacchio's going to wander off on these injured legs of his. Yeah right. He counts himself lucky that he can keep sitting upright without anything at his back – though the action kind of makes his bruised stomach hurt. When he looks down at it, it's already dark indigo in color. Ugh.

Paying attention to Buccellati is vastly preferable than paying attention to himself, so that's where Abbacchio lets his eyes stick. Those minute flexes of Buccellati's arms and back as he washes his hands are mesmerizing, as is the fall of his hair as he angles his head while rifling through the medicine cabinet. He emerges triumphant with a pair of tweezers, which he then sanitizes with an alcohol wipe.

It's not long before Buccellati is stepping in behind Abbacchio again. Those knees once again bear Abbacchio's weight as Buccellati sets a long-abandoned, dust-ridden soap dish down on the lip of the tub.

To collect the aforementioned glass, Abbacchio assumes.

"There's not much here," Buccellati is saying, fingers of one hand pressed to the top of Abbacchio's shoulder. "I'll be quick."

Since nodding ha since proven to be a shitty idea, Abbacchio mumbles, "Sure…"

Buccellati gets back to tending to Abbacchio's head, bracing one careful hand there to flatten hair out of the way. It stretches apart the edges of the wound in a way that stings. Sends Abbacchio's headache throbbing all over again – so he shuts his eyes, fighting off another dizzy wave.

He can just barely hear the click of tweezers against glass, but he sure as fuck feels it when the shard is pulled free of the torn skin of his scalp. A stinging dot of pain that soon ebbs back into the rest of the general hurt in that area, followed by a clinking noise as Buccellati drops the shard into that old soap dish.

The pattern is repeated twice more. Glass plucked free by attentive hands. Little flareups of pain.

Afterward, Buccellati is pulling at the bloodied edges of that cut, carefully angling Abbacchio's head. Scrutinizing the injury and the area around it to make sure all of the glass is gone. It must be, because Buccellati sets the tweezers in with the discarded glass and moves that dish out of the way somewhere.

Saline is up next, which will be murder on Abbacchio's poor hair, thanks to all that salt water. Buccellati leans around Abbacchio to reach the bottle.

He's…so close and comfortable. At odds with the misery tugging on Abbacchio's heart and too many sore spots.

"I'll flush it first," Buccellati is saying, "and then I'll wash your hair."

That is the sort of pampering that Abbacchio will revel in. Distracting comfort on a grand scale, because Buccellati's hands ravishing gentle attentions on his hair via washing it is one of Abbacchio's favorite sensations – though today he doesn't really deserve this much – ugh. The thought of it makes him feel simultaneously better and worse.

Better to not think on it, in that case, and just follow the gentle urging of Buccellati's hands as they tip his head slowly backward, so that the saline doesn't drip into his eyes. At least one of them is sensible.

Abbacchio winds up closing his eyes anyway, when Buccellati gets to work. More pressure stinging to life as any residual debris is flushed from this wound, liquid soaking into Abbacchio's hair and trickling down the back of his neck. This one isn't nearly as terrible as his legs were –

But he does almost tip over, leaned too far back –the brace of Buccellati's arm catches him and keeps him upright. Working in tandem with Buccellati's legs to support him.

"Easy," Buccellati murmurs. He's finishing up, setting aside the saline and easing Abbacchio's head forward some. Probably for a better view of that cut as he starts to zipper it shut. His thumbs brush along the side of it, smoothing Abbacchio's wet hair down so it doesn't get caught. "You're lucky, with this one…"

This time, Abbacchio's scoff doesn't result in a coughing fit (progress). "Sure. Lucky."

Lucky to have someone like Buccellati, who will bail Abbacchio out of any and all ditches he's dug himself into. Will even lavish loving care on Abbacchio whether it's called for or not.

Even now, Buccellati is shuffling careful around him, headed to the far end of the tub to retrieve the detachable showerhead. Because he's going to wash Abbacchio's hair…after everything else…

"Very lucky," comes more insistence from Buccellati as he adjusts the water temperature, one hand in the stream and the other on the knobs. "That bump on your head could be much worse – how are you feeling?"

Wretched. "Concussed."

"What's my favorite movie?"

The question comes out casual, possibly even with a lilting tone to it that would suggest a joke. But Abbacchio knows Buccellati well enough to spot those tight lines around his eyes, the twitching downward pull at the corner of his mouth. He's worried. Over Abbacchio

"Il Postino," Abbacchio answers on a mumble. Because Buccellati is an oddball like that. (And similar to how Abbacchio could never forget him in general, there's also no forgetting any of those intimate details Abbacchio has gleaned through knowing him.)

That taut set of Buccellati's shoulders relaxes a bit, and his mouth twitches in the opposite direction. "See? You're not that concussed." He's still trying to sound casual, but Abbacchio still knows him better than that. Hates the undertone in his voice that wouldn't be there if Abbacchio hadn't fucked up. "You'll be fine," Buccellati concludes, somehow. Seems like he's trying to reassure himself more than Abbacchio.

It's not fucking fair. Abbacchio should've never let himself get caught. Then he wouldn't be this many flavors of miserable, spilling all over Buccellati, who has more than enough to worry about already.

Now, on top of all of the usual fuckery, he also has to worry about shit like getting the water to a comfortable enough temperature to wash Abbacchio's hair with. He pours just as much care into this, too. Even angles the spray away as he shuffles back around behind Abbacchio for a better vantage point.

So much additional responsibility heaped on this man who already has plenty to shoulder, and Abbacchio hates that this feels good. Those careful hands coaxing him to lean back. Getting him situated, while Buccellati holds the showerhead pressed between his knees…

Then comes the gentle feel of warm water, soaking the fall of Abbacchio's hair. Guided by Buccellati's expertise, it only drenches Abbacchio a little bit. Inevitably leaves him sitting in a shallow river as pink-tinted water heads for the drain – but he doesn't mind at all. Can't even think of anything like a residual chill, under these gentle attentions.

This has him feeling downright spoiled. A comfortable counterpart to time spent chained up as live bait in a fucking basement, left to bleed out on cold concrete unless –

Ugh.

It would be a good idea for Abbacchio to close his eyes. Better for his persistent headache, and better to keep the water out of them, never mind the shampoo that's up next. It's not at all that he's having a hard time watching the tender focus in Buccellati's expression right now.

The shower nozzle is once again sidelined so that Buccellati can lather Abbacchio's hair at the roots. He's only done this a couple of times before, under much softer context, and Abbacchio melts just as quick now as he did then. Quicker, even, thanks to lack of energy and too much pain. This much soft contact after everything is…

Buccellati's hands are thorough, in their work. The pads of his fingers scrubbing along Abbacchio's scalp, fingernails scratching pleasant at the base of his skull. Behind Abbacchio's ears. Gentle around that zipped-up cut, they only pull a little. Barely aggravate Abbacchio's sore head. They soothe it.

When Buccellati rinses, he presses a hand warm above Abbacchio's brow, blocking runoff from getting into his eyes.

God. Abbacchio is too weak for this shit. Worn too wrought from today's events.

The suds are cleared away after a lengthy massage that's almost enough to lull Abbacchio back to sleep. Buccellati spends extra time running hot water through his hair, too. Unnecessary rinsing, just for the comfort of it, near as Abbacchio can tell. It does soothe the ache there even more; feels good against the throbbing and the spinning and everything else that makes Abbacchio want to pass out.

And then comes conditioner. Slathered thick on Buccellati's palms, and combed through the ends of Abbacchio's hair with thorough intent. More time spent on it than Abbacchio ever has.

That, after everything else – all of this methodical, affectionate care that Buccellati is lavishing on Abbacchio – the gentle way he's tending to him, looking after his wounds personally after taking him home instead of dumping him at some clinic – zipping apart the guys that attacked him into too many pieces to be practical – overkilling that crazed knife guy –

Abbacchio doesn't…

It's all too much. Good thing he has his eyes closed, right now.

"I'm sorry," he finds himself whispering, while those fingers crisscross through the length of his hair. Running smooth.

It's a hoarse sort of thing, that whisper, but Buccellati hears him. Makes another soothing shushing noise, barely-there. "You don't have anything to apologize for," he says, voice liquid and low.

Abbacchio's breath hitches. "I was an idiot. I got caught, and you –"

"It was an ambush." If Abbacchio's not mistaken, there's a bitter edge to Buccellati's words as he talks, now. Definitely sounds harder than the gentle words aimed at Abbacchio. "They would've gone after any of you, to get to me." Oh, now that is not at all fair. Sounds too much like Buccellati is trying to shoulder blame for this. "You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Yeah. Wrong place, wrong time, after drinking the wrong beverage and disobeying protocol in the wrong way…

(As previously stated, Abbacchio is a fucking idiot.)

Still. He hates that note in Buccellati's voice. Reaches for one of his hands and plucks it free of white, slippery hair. Just holds it. Doesn't know what the hell else to do, how to repay this awful debt. Quell any turmoil that Buccellati doesn't deserve – will never deserve.

"It wasn't your fault," Abbacchio manages. That's the one thing he can't let stand.

Buccellati lifts the hand in his and presses a kiss to the back of Abbacchio's knuckles. His lips are so fucking soft. Abbacchio cracks his eyes open on a paltry offering. Squints into vibrant blue.

"It wasn't yours," Buccellati says – and that is the biggest lie that Abbacchio has heard in his entire life.

"Yes it –"

"It wasn't, Leone."

What the hell can Abbacchio do here, except clamp his teeth shut. He can't even bring himself to glare at Buccellati, with that thumb brushing his knuckles, that other hand buried in his hair. Buccellati didn't even agree that he himself wasn't at fault for this shit. More misery swirls through Abbacchio's stomach.

"I'll finish your hair, and then get you to bed." Buccellati's voice is easier now. Warmer and less-fraught, and Abbacchio almost crumples at those words. "After I get Narancia set up properly on the couch, I'll join you."

Ah. Fuck. "You don't have t–"

"That way I can wake you periodically, to check on your concussion."

Shit. That's going to make Abbacchio fucking cry – what the fuck.

As if Buccellati hasn't done enough for him already. What gives him the right to cut off their conversation with this? Abbacchio wishes he'd been left to lick his wounds alone. (Only. He doesn't actually wish that, and therein lies the problem.) It will kill Abbacchio, at this rate. Handing more of his suffering over to Buccellati.

Yet here Buccellati is, accepting it. Gently setting Abbacchio's hand back down. Starting to rinse the conditioner out of his hair with careful sweeps of the showerhead, other hand coasting through to help.

"You don't have to do any of that," Abbacchio mutters. He doesn't have the strength to tell Buccellati to leave.

Showerhead set aside yet again, Buccellati leans around Abbacchio's side. Probably in a bid to look Abbacchio in the eyes, but Abbacchio isn't about to play along with that shit – at least – not until warm fingertips press to his jaw, urging his head to tip upward and to the right.

Now Abbacchio cannot possibly look away. He's sinking helpless into that determined gaze, no matter how it shows off the wetness gathering in his eyes. Because he really is that fucking pathetic, isn't he?

Miraculously as ever, it doesn't seem like Buccellati minds. Is content to rub gentle along Abbacchio's jaw. Angle him a little more, so that when Buccellati bends closer, his lips can capture Abbacchio's in a soft kiss. (No lipstick in the way, because Buccellati took that off for him earlier. While he was unconscious. God.)

This contact is tender and lingering. Eyes open and locked with Abbacchio's the entire time.

When Buccellati pulls back, he does so slowly. With care. Brushes his thumb along Abbacchio's bottom lip. "I will always care for you," he says. "No matter what."

Throat blocked by a mysterious lump and eyes too-hot, all Abbacchio can do is accept those words.

(He'll try to be worthy of them, next time.)


A/N: Thanks for reading!