A/N: Day 12: I Like You

Warning for brief instances of mildly-described violence.

"Abbacchio, can't you at least try to get along with the others?"

There's a hint of exasperation in Buccellati's voice, and he's sitting there at the messy dinner table with a more strained expression than usual. Something about his posture almost looks tired, in that way it does when he's been overworking himself.

Abbacchio pushes down any inklings of guilt (or tries to) and frowns through it. "I do try. It's not my fault they're pieces of shit." Granted, most of the time Abbacchio can work with that, but tonight…

Buccellati's eyes go all imploring, if Abbacchio is reading the subtle changes in his expression right. "You don't have to be a piece of shit back."

That's not fair at all, just like the returned pang of guilt isn't fair, and neither is the fact that Abbacchio is the only one held back for a lecture in the aftermath, when he didn't even start this particular argument. "Neither do they."

Buccellati heaves a heavy sigh and rests his cheek on a fist. The elbow he's got propped on the table to accomplish this lands in a spot of what's either tomato sauce or blood, but right now doesn't seem like a good time to point that out.

"This always happens, when I leave you guys alone."

No it doesn't. Abbacchio is a fantastic babysitter most of the time (even when Fugo thinks he's the one in charge). He lets the kids do whatever they want.

…If whatever they want just so happens to be attempted murder with eating utensils, who is he to intervene? The problem is when they come after him, breaking his headphones…into four pieces, which gets Mista involved…and so on and so forth.

Usually things go a lot smoother than that, though.

Tonight, Abbacchio has nothing to say for himself.

"None of you have any problem cooperating under my orders, but when I'm late for dinner all hell breaks loose." This is as close as Buccellati gets to ranting, so he really must be tired. He's glaring at the stack of plates – some cracked – in the center of the table as he asks, "Why?"

That's probably a rhetorical question, but some soft part of Abbacchio wants to alleviate Buccellati's frustration, and that soft part opens its big fat mouth and answers:

"Because I like you."

Buccellati's eyes latch onto Abbacchio's. Brilliantly blue and wider than usual –

And, yeah, wow, that was some weird fucking slip of the tongue Abbacchio had there wasn't it! It's soaking his cheeks in heat and setting off 'ABORT MISSION' sirens in his head.

"I mean – because, because we like you," he scrambles. Clears his throat. Clenches his hands into fists and tries not to shuffle in place (or run the hell away). Buccellati is still watching him. "We…respect your leadership, so – it's – y'know, easier to…behave…under orders."

Or something like that. God.

There's a strange, unfamiliar light in Buccellati's eyes that's doing funny things to Abbacchio's chest. Which is just as completely ridiculous as it always is, but it's his own fault for thoughtlessly blurting that shit out –

"In that case," Buccellati says, after a too-long pause, "I'm ordering you to get along with them."

And that's. Is that a joke? Abbacchio can't tell, and trying to puzzle it out only makes the flustered feeling in his chest worse.

Whatever the hell it is, Abbacchio does not want to be ordered to get along with anyone on this shitty team full of children. He'll get along with whoever he damn well pleases to get along with, and so he kicks aside the flustered feelings for now (or tries to; they don't really budge).

"Order them. They started it."

Buccellati's expression cracks, then, and the sun pokes through on an honest-to-god smile, and Abbacchio is left blinded with no idea what just happened when Buccellati dismisses him at last.

x

"Abbacchio! This is important – why aren't you listening?"

"No matter how much I like you, I'm still not going to do that, Buccellati!"

Buccellati pauses with his back pressed to Abbacchio's, right in the middle of a fight. There's no telling what kind of face he's making – but Abbacchio, for one, is scowling to himself because god-fucking-dammit he's done it again.

This is the fourth time in as many weeks he's let that little phrase slip since that time in the restaurant, and he hasn't meant it once.

…Well. He's meant it of course, but he didn't mean to say it. Out loud. Because this isn't the kind of thing you just say, and it's definitely not the kind of thing you just say to someone like Buccellati when you're someone like Abbacchio.

These fond feelings are real, though, that much Abbacchio knows, for better or worse. And they're apparently also raring to get out just as badly as these surrounding idiots want to escape their unauthorized gambling den.

Neither should be allowed to happen, for his own personal peace of mind or Passione's.

But there go his feelings, spilling all over the floor –

And there goes one of the ringleaders with a sack of cash, so Abbacchio sprints after him (and away from his feelings). Trips the guy up and knocks him out, even though Buccellati is calling from behind with frustration laced in his tone.

"Abbacchio." Buccellati appears at Abbacchio's side, through the chaos of the small room – with its dim lighting and fleeing patrons and overturned tables. "This is no time to be stubborn! I need Moody Blues to find the combination for the security system so we can lock this place down." He unzips the ankles of a couple of scrambling rich people, and they hit the floor. "We can't let any of the orchestrators escape."

Abbacchio huffs as he kicks the money out of reach of any of the tripped up gamblers. "I told you, I'm not going defenseless in here." There are too many people with too much to lose trapped in too close of quarters. No idea how many stand users, if any.

"Mista will cover you," Buccellati argues, grabbing the money that Abbacchio sloppily disposed of and stashing it in one of Sticky Fingers' hidden compartments on his suit.

"Mista's busy!" The main exit won't guard itself, after all. Ugh, why are there so many people here? He shoves over at least two more. "We can just – "

And then Buccellati is close again, grabbing Abbacchio's wrist and hauling him in the direction of the security room.

"Fine – I like you, so I'll cover you, alright?!"

Now isn't the time to freeze, but Abbacchio does it anyway. Feet digging in, ground to a halt. Staring at Buccellati, because.

This can't be possible.

The whole grabbing Abbacchio's wrist thing was bad enough.

Does…Buccellati know what he just said?

Brows furrowed in irritation and mouth set in a tight line, Buccellati yanks hard on Abbacchio's arm. No, it doesn't seem like he realizes the gravity of what he just said. Thanks to the situation. Probably. "Leone," he snaps, in that same longsuffering, exasperated tone that he always uses when Abbacchio won't cooperate (which is not often, thanks for asking), "please."

"Yeah." Abbacchio swallows. The sound of his first name in that tone sure is something. "Yeah, alright."

A/N: Thanks for reading!