A/N: Day 18: Run
Warnings for violence, blood, and injury. Nothing too graphic, but it's a couple steps up from mild.
Abbacchio's feet pound the pavement with fervor as he runs with Buccellati's hand clutched tight in his own, threatening to slip free in the rain.
The downpour drenches them both to the core, but there isn't any time to stop for shelter. They have to keep going. Outnumbered, they're in no position to fight back just yet. With that many guns on their tail, coming from who knows how many different directions, waiting out in the open until they're within stand range is too dangerous.
Dodging and weaving through streets packed tight with buildings is their only advantage for now, until they can –
"Our best bet is to ambush them," Buccellati says, over the din of the rain and the thundering of Abbacchio's heart. "Hide somewhere, get them all in one place, and then surprise them."
Yeah, that.
"Got it," Abbacchio grunts. His longer legs keep him in front of Buccellati, guiding him, trying not to pull him along – it's probably annoying, but Buccellati doesn't let go.
The hand holding isn't necessary and is hindering their speed, but the tread on Buccellati's shoes is too worn and slippery in the rain, so he needs this support if he doesn't want to fall – and Abbacchio needs the reassurance – but that doesn't matter right now.
What matters is that Abbacchio is in front. So he casts his gaze around, seeking out a good niche to drag Buccellati into for safekeeping.
But somehow Buccellati still manages to spot it first, pointing from behind Abbacchio. "That alleyway will be perfect." Abbacchio spares a second to follow Buccellati's finger, attention locked on the alley's entrance as Buccellati explains, "Once we're there, Sticky Fingers can –"
A familiar series of muffled noises from behind them interrupts Buccellati. Gunshots, stifled by silencers.
Buccellati trips and collides with Abbacchio's back, gasping as their hands slip apart and he damn near falls, and fuck it, Abbacchio is buying him new shoes after this –
Reflexively, he turns to grab at Buccellati, winds up hauling the both of them into the alley, a sloppy tangle of stumbling feet that ends with Abbacchio's back hitting a cold concrete wall. But at least they're out of the line of fire. For now.
They have a couple minutes at the most, for Sticky Fingers to get them set up in a zipper pocket, but.
But Buccellati doesn't make any move to call out his stand. He's standing with his shoulders hunched and head bowed, oddly still beneath Abbacchio's supporting hands. His breath is coming in sharp gasps, and it's only been a handful of seconds that he's been stagnant but usually he's right on the ball.
"Buccellati."
Sagging a bit in Abbacchio's hold, Buccellati's head dips before he hauls it upward. His eyes are tight at the edges, hair plastered to his face by the rain, mouth a grim line. "I got it," he assures, "just – just one second."
Hurried footsteps are almost on top of them now, though, and they don't have one second.
A tight, cold feeling takes hold of Abbacchio's gut, freezing him in place. He squeezes hard at Buccellati's shoulders, heart in his throat as he tries to work out what to do amidst an uncomfortable amount of panic –
Sticky Fingers appears, thank fuck, and uses its left hand to start opening a hole in the wall at Abbacchio's back. He takes half a step backwards into it, and Buccellati sinks into him in turn, slumping forward, and that's when Abbacchio spots it.
Dark red. Blossoming out from a hole in the back of Buccellati's right shoulder, soaking the white of his suit and Abbacchio's fingertips and how did he not notice –
The rain made it hard to tell. Maybe. Everything is wet and cold except for the warm-wet spreading beneath Abbacchio's hand and there's a wound at its center and his chest seizes up. He digs his feet in and locks his knees, refusing to enter the pocket dimension at his back.
"Bruno – Bruno, holy shit, stop –"
Buccellati shakes his head, pushing against Abbacchio with a surprising amount of strength for a guy who was shot. "It's fine," he says, "I'm fine, we need to –"
"You're not fine, just let me –"
With a rough shove, Buccellati forces them both into the safety of Sticky Fingers' storage space, zipping it shut behind them. He stays pressed to Abbacchio's chest, forehead leaning on his shoulder as breaths hiss through his teeth.
Abbacchio stands as steady and tall as he can. His hand slips at Buccellati's bloodied shoulder, and he looks down, tries to nudge fabric aside to get a better view of the mess, wants to put some pressure on it, at least –
"Stop it," Buccellati gasps, and shit.
Abbacchio gives up, with both hands layered atop the wound and Buccellati wrapped in some kind of sloppy, coincidental hug. Abbacchio's heart is frantic in his chest. There's so much blood. Leaking between his fingers. And it was his fault again. Buccellati put himself between Abbacchio and the gun, just like –
No, he can't do this here. There isn't time to do this here.
He swallows down the guilt and the memories and the pain to wallow in later, because Buccellati needs him now.
"I'll be alright," Buccellati is saying, voice taut with pain, as he sends Sticky Fingers around behind himself. "I'll zip it up, and then we'll finish this."
"No."
"Leone –"
"You're not going back out there!"
Squirming with an impressive amount of vigor, Buccellati separates from Abbacchio, and already-slippery hands slip away from that wound so Sticky Fingers can seal it. At this new angle and distance, Abbacchio can't see it, but he hopes that the bleeding has stopped.
Buccellati lifts his chin, and squares his shoulders with a barely-there flicker of a grimace. "They're waiting for us," he says, his voice just the wrong side of steady, "but they won't know where we're coming from. We'll have to take them out quick, before they can reorient themselves."
That's all well and good. Makes perfect sense. But Buccellati is planning to fight with a bullet in his shoulder, and Sticky Fingers is already opening up the wall again, and Abbacchio can't let this happen.
"We can wait them out," he tries, but his fretting mind reminds him that blood loss is a thing, for one, and –
"We can't," is all Buccellati says. It's enough, though, layered with a million and one unspoken reasons why.
Abbacchio is well aware.
So he does the only thing he can think of. Grabs Buccellati, spins them both around and swaps places with him. Barrels past Sticky Fingers into the alley. Sends Moody Blues to try and block Buccellati's inevitable escape.
In the alley, things are a mess. Blood on Abbacchio's hands, on the ground, being washed away by rain but there all the same – it's all he can focus on for a second – but he doesn't have a second.
Those assholes are all gathered waiting at the wrong end of the alley, and Abbacchio feels a whole lot of nothing – or is it everything – as he rushes them. Grabs the barrel of the nearest gun. Shoves it back until it cracks off a skull, right between the eyes.
They're all on him at once, but that's fine. He owes them for what they did to – shit, thinking is dangerous, nearly gets him shot so instinct it is.
He turns his newly acquired gun on someone else. Elbows another guy in the nose, pushing until he drops. Feels a bullet graze his arm and goes for whoever shot it next. Maybe gets hit in the head and kind of blacks the fuck out and loses track of the fight in a vicious blur until –
Several heads are severed by zippers, and anyone who's still conscious collapses, heads rolling away.
It's over in seconds. Before Abbacchio got the chance to really get going, which is a fucking shame.
More important than that, though, is the sight of Buccellati standing in the alleyway. Leaned heavily against the wall and clutching at his right arm. Which is the one that Sticky Fingers presumably just used to attack. And also the one with the bullet wound.
"What the hell was that for?!"
An aggravated expression crosses Buccellati's face, magnified by pain. "Much as I love watching you fight, Leone," he snaps, "you were outnumbered and I'm faster."
"I had it handled. You're hurt." God, he's so hurt.
"I'm fine."
He's not. He's wrought and he's pale and he's trembling. Blood is soaking his shirt, still leaking from the zipper that is barely holding him together, Abbacchio can see it now. Red sneaking between golden zipper teeth.
Crumpled enemies and their lolling heads litter the ground, but Abbacchio steps over all of it. Ignores his own minor twinging injuries – fuck, did someone get a lucky hit in on his face? – until he's at Buccellati's side. His heartrate just kept right on spiking during the fight, and it isn't showing any signs of slowing down anytime soon.
Buccellati looks even worse up close.
"We need to get you to a hospital."
Pushing off of the wall, Buccellati sways on his feet for a moment before managing to steady himself. His gaze is hardened, and he shakes his head once. "Just take me home, Leone," he insists, through clenched teeth.
Oh no, this is not something Buccellati should be allowed to fix with Sticky Fingers amateur first aid. Abbacchio is not going to let that happen. "But you –"
"Please." Buccellati's expression cracks, just for a second.
That's all it takes.
Heart in his throat, Abbacchio reaches for Buccellati with trembling, bloodstained hands.
A/N: Thanks for reading..!