A/N: Day 19: Training
Warnings for references to alcoholism/coping via alcohol, brief mentions of human experimentation, and a nosebleed.
Superpowers AU.
"You'll get the hang of it," Buccellati says, and it would be reassuring, yeah, except that this is the umpteenth time he's said so in the past hour.
Surprise of surprises, it doesn't actually help more than it did the past billion times.
Abbacchio clenches his fists at his sides and stands with his shoulders tensed tight. Fighting the urge to storm out.
He's starting to hate this training room. And that pencil on the table in front of him. And the chair he refuses to sit back down in – though that should be safe, so long as he keeps his hands off of it. (Maybe, his ability's activated before without the use of his hands, fuck if he fully understands how it works.)
But the chair also puts him closer to Buccellati, and that's…
Abbacchio just wants some space. To clear his head, or some shit.
Because no matter how much he vows to never touch the pencil again, one glance at Buccellati's schooled expression tells him he will, and he hates that, too.
"It takes practice and time."
"I know," Abbacchio growls. God, he knows. He needs a drink. Something strong enough to dull all of this down so he can pretend he's still normal for a while – but that's counterproductive to the job he's signed on for, he'll never learn to control this power-that-he-didn't-ask-for that way, it'll only make things worse in the long run etc. etc.…
Buccellati has the nerve to sigh at him. "If you don't learn to turn this on and off at will, you'll –"
"Fuck – I know, okay? I've lived with this for months, remember?"
That shuts Buccellati up. His mouth presses into a thin line, his posture rigid as ever. Probably feels guilty over the aforementioned months, wherein after rescuing Abbacchio from a certain lab he left him to his own devices.
Buccellati isn't to blame for everything, though. He's trying to help now, at least. And he's just about the only person who's done that for Abbacchio so far.
Not even Abbacchio has tried to help himself beyond dulling his own senses. This is a grave of his own digging, after all. He was warned away from investigating Diavolo time and again by just about everyone, his superiors and Buccellati included. But he couldn't keep his nose out of things, wanted truth, wanted justice – and so now here he is: on the run, stuck in Buccellati's little vigilante group's hideout, trying to hone powers that were forced upon him during an experiment he doesn't want to remember.
Because it turns out that supervillains hate policemen who can't keep their noses out of things.
(Well. He's not a policeman anymore but. That's beside the point.)
"I'm sorry," Buccellati says, slowly, and boy does Abbacchio hate the uncomfortable feeling that squirms into his gut at those words, "that I didn't come to you sooner. But I need your help if we're going to stop Diavolo, because you're the only one who can track him down."
For that, Abbacchio needs these stupid powers to work, instead of sabotaging his headspace like they have been. That's the unspoken bit that Buccellati leaves out.
(Actually, there are a lot of unspoken bits that Buccellati leaves out, but Abbacchio isn't in the mood to rehash them today. He's so damn sick of memories assaulting him at every turn.)
See, if Abbacchio knelt and touched the floor right now, he would theoretically be able to sense every person who ever set foot here, along with what they were doing. Where they were going, maybe. Buccellati seems to think that he could even tell what was on their minds, if he really focuses.
The problem is that as Abbacchio is now, the influx of information would overload his brain and knock him out. Or worse.
Hence the need to learn to sort through it – to search and filter and find specifics. Hence this stuffy training room. Hence that goddamned pencil.
"I'm just tired of seeing nothing but hands," Abbacchio grumbles in the end, though that isn't the root problem at all, and Buccellati knows it.
The root problem is that Abbacchio sucks at this. Lacks that special something that comes from being born with powers. Artificial abilities awakened by a crazed doctor's experiments just aren't the same. What a pity.
Buccellati's lips twitch. They almost form a smile, maybe.
And even after all of the trouble that knowing this man has caused Abbacchio, the sight of that maybe-smile still sends his heart into a fit. Which is not fair.
"Why don't you try reading something else, then?"
"Like what? You remember what happened when I tried the table."
But Buccellati only shrugs this off, blasé about the fact that they had to buy an entirely new training room table for Abbacchio's sake, after that time he accidentally rested his bare palms on the old one. (Turns out someone had once upon a time used it for some training that was more…physical.)
"You haven't tried a person, in a while."
Yeah, and there's a damn good reason for that. It's the same as the reason why he stopped leaving his apartment only a week after his abilities fully manifested. "That's not a good idea."
"Maybe not," Buccellati says. His eyes are so genuine that Abbacchio can't help but deepen his scowl. "But you haven't had much luck with inanimate objects so far."
Because he sucks at this, and should be left to rot. (Hell, maybe he doesn't even want to control it. Maybe he just wants rid of it, greater good be damned.) Abbacchio nudges the chair away from the table with his foot, and takes a heavy seat. "I haven't exactly had much luck with people either."
"You haven't tried since you started practicing."
"That was three days ago." And it's done fuck-all to help so far.
"Just –" Buccellati reaches for Abbacchio's hands, but Abbacchio recoils, curling his arms in. Buccellati's hands drop to the tabletop between them, looking dejected – as expressive as hands can look, anyway. "Just try it."
"What – with you?"
"Yes."
Buccellati can't be serious. He doesn't know what the hell he's asking for – Abbacchio brushed skin with another person twice since he got these powers, and both times his brain nearly melted from the strain of a thousand memories flooding his head at once. It's invasive. And Abbacchio knows for a fact that Buccellati is a private sort.
Abbacchio wrings his hands together, dropping them to his lap. "You realize I can't control this shit at-fucking-all, right?"
"That's what we're trying to fix," Buccellati says, and his hands are still resting on the table, palm-up. He doesn't reach for Abbacchio, or retract them. Somehow that makes this whole thing worse – it's all on Abbacchio, now.
But, see, the thing is: "I don't want to dive into your head." Because he's scared of what he'll see. Scared of what he won't. Already knows what memory he would dig for, but isn't that just so fucking selfish?
"Let me help you, Leone," is what Buccellati says in response, his voice laced with something that Abbacchio would rather not confirm.
It sets all of his meager defenses crumbling to dust.
He glares at the hands on the table and wishes he wasn't so weak.
Through clenched teeth and with a reluctant tongue, he asks, "Is there anything specific you want me to look for?"
"You pick."
Fuck. So this is happening.
Abbacchio should go for something practical. He should most definitely not search for the memories he wants to find, the ones from a simpler time. He should…he should look for something related to Buccellati's powers and how he makes such efficient use of them. That would be helpful.
…This is a mistake.
Abbacchio reaches for Buccellati's hand, anyway.
His fingers brush warm skin, and that's the last he physically feels before his mind is flooded. It's like being bowled over by a wave taller than you at the beach, then being pulled out to sea, sucked in by the undertow and battered around for good measure.
Abbacchio tries to wrap his own mind around the flood. Clog the holes. Cling to one specific thought or memory or scene amidst the thousands that flash by like a skipping movie reel.
He looks for himself. Half a year ago, when things were easier and his hair was shorter and he and Buccellati met for the very first time, and then again and again after that.
Back when Abbacchio realized that hey, vigilante justice isn't so bad.
And those who enact it aren't so bad either.
It – it works. There he is, suddenly, clear as day, on a rooftop in his old uniform. It feels weird. Not at all like looking in a mirror, and he wants to glance away, except this is Buccellati's memory, and it turns out that Buccellati never glanced away.
There are feelings, too. Strong ones that get only stronger as the memories start flashing through each of their encounters. Fondness. Attraction. Warmth. Care. Fear, when he was in danger, and –
Abbacchio yanks his hand back.
He's breathing heavier than normal, and his head hurts as the room around him comes into blurry focus, Buccellati along with it. All of the lights in here are too bright.
"You did it," Buccellati says. Sounds surprised. "That felt…"
"You felt it?" Something warm is trickling from Abbacchio's nose, and when he swipes his fingers through it, they come away bloody. He tugs his sleeve over his hand and presses it to his nose. Fuck, he's never doing that again…
A strange, soft expression settles on Buccellati's face. It's almost painful to look at. "I saw it, too."
Abbacchio's stomach swoops. Shit. "What?"
"Your ability is definitely mental…" Buccellati is reaching for him, again, fingers brushing over Abbacchio's cheek and all of those feelings rush right back in.
Abbacchio ducks away. Shoves his chair backward. He can't stop staring at Buccellati with residual shared warmth in his chest. Psychic powers sure are fucking swell, aren't they?
There's silence for a long time, and Abbacchio wants to be anywhere but here. His nose is still bleeding and his head is still pounding and Buccellati knows he went digging to check if his crush really was returned all those long months ago and will probably be distant with him now – more so than usual –
Something nudges at Abbacchio's ankle under the table. It's Buccellati's shoe, and it pokes until Abbacchio relents and hauls his gaze upward to make eye contact.
Buccellat's eyes are blue and shining with purpose as he says, "I still feel that way, you know. About you."
Abbacchio's mouth stays stuck shut.
He's afraid of what will spill out if he pries it open.
A/N: This is technically a snapshot of a much bigger superhero AU I have sitting around as a rough outline, but I know I'll never write in full. Tried to write this short in a way that would make sense/be enjoyable out of context,,
Canon!verse will be back tomorrow. :')
Thanks for reading!