A/N: Day 27: Hands
Warning for casual mentions of murder, the non-graphic existence of the corpse itself, and hand removal/reattachment via Sticky Fingers.
"Can you hold this for me?"
On reflex (because he's good at following orders when he wants to, no matter how many times Buccellati badgers him for his supposed senseless stubbornness) Abbacchio reaches out to take whatever it is without a second thought –
Only for Buccellati to drop an entire fucking hand into his waiting palms.
"What the fuck –" Abbacchio scrabbles for a moment, but manages not to drop the zipped-off hand. Upon closer inspection he recognizes it as belonging to Buccellati, and cradles it with maybe a bit more care. "What the hell is –"
"Sh!" Buccellati hisses, from where he's crouched down and busy zipping the hand of the poor, unfortunate, very-much-dead head of security onto his arm in place of his own. "Just keep hold of it," he whispers. "I can't leave it here."
Kind of in the middle of a heart attack, Abbacchio has no idea how to respond to that. All he can do is stare at Buccellati's severed hand. It's still warm, and the neatly zippered apart edge assures that it won't start bleeding, or anything – but he's never exactly seen this separated from Buccellati's arm before, and it is going to take a hot minute for this to not feel freaky as all hell.
…Buccellati's nails are immaculate, and his skin is soft, if a bit dry around the knuckles. There are a couple callouses, too. In spots where a pencil or pen would rest, from the looks of things, which is proof positive that Buccellati works too much…
Abbacchio realizes that he's running his thumb along the back of this hand, and abruptly stops when he wonders if Buccellati can feel it.
"You want me to just…"
"Carry it, yes."
Buccellati is standing back up now, rubbing at his newly attached appendage. He's either oblivious to or uncaring of Abbacchio's disquiet. Absorbed in the task ahead of him – which right now involves stashing the guard's body in the wall via Sticky Fingers' powers – and that's good, that he's so focused, given that this is their job and all.
But. Still. Abbacchio is having some kind of miniature crisis over here, with his fingers twitching against the tanned hand in his grasp.
"Can't you put it in one of Sticky Fingers' compartments, or something?"
"No," Buccellati says, as he places his borrowed palm on a hand scanner. With this, they're granted official access to the facility beyond this security room, and Buccellati leads the way in, his voice still low. "It's more convenient if you keep hold of it."
That makes sense. Maybe. In some small semblance of a way? At any rate, Abbacchio can't argue it – not when they're sneaking around in the shadows like this.
But what's he supposed to do? Put Buccellati's hand in his pocket? It could fall out and get lost if left unattended, but what happens if worse comes to worst Abbacchio needs to fight? They're not supposed to get caught or even be seen, because Moody Blues deactivated the security cameras for a time and this place is deserted for the weekend – but there's always a what-if.
For now, Abbacchio supposes he will do as Buccellati requests and…keep hold of it. Out in the open. Like this.
Though, surely, he can free up at least one hand and doesn't have to keep clutching Buccellati's hand between both of his own so tightly. He tests this theory, curling one hand awkward around the limp shape of Buccellati's. It feels weird, and not at all secure, so he swaps to entwining their fingers.
And, yep, that's the ticket. That works perfect. A good, snug fit.
He won't drop it now. Might even be able to punch like this. And his right hand is free.
…The only problem is how scrambled this is making his insides. But he can handle it. He'll get over it. There shouldn't be anything even remotely romantic about clutching Buccellati's dismembered hand in his own, especially considering the way that blunted wrist bumps against his own whenever it's jostled.
But there are butterflies clawing eagerly at the lining of Abbacchio's stomach regardless.
Oh what he wouldn't give to have Buccellati's laser focus at a time like this.
They've come to another restricted access door, so Buccellati again makes use of his borrowed hand on the scanner to unlock and then open it. He ushers Abbacchio in ahead of himself, and lets the door swing shut behind them as they carry on down this newest hallway.
Huh. That felt…odd. Not in the same way that holding hands with a standalone hand is odd, but odd in a normal-life-but-to-the-left way.
Buccellati turns left, Abbacchio at his side, and then opens another door using that hand of his, and, ah, right that's what's odd.
"Why aren't we using Sticky Fingers to break in?"
"Because the scanners keep track of who opened which doors when, and this needs to look like an inside job."
"We're framing the security guy," Abbacchio surmises, sticking close to Buccellati's heels. No amount of conversation can distract him from the feel of that hand held tight in his own, but it can't hurt to try.
Buccellati nods. "He was already causing dissent with his coworkers…complaining about pay…" He pauses at an intersection of hallways, thinking for a second before taking off down the one to the right. "No one will be surprised that he stole a prototype to sell and disappeared."
"Why not have Moody Blues turn into him?" And consequently spare Abbacchio these butterflies.
"There's no guarantee he opened all of these doors before…" This last door that they come to a stop in front of has a keypad alongside its scanner, and Buccellati frowns in thought for a moment before keying in the password and then scanning his hand.
Inside what appears to be a storage room (really, these guys have shit security, maybe they figure an isolated top-secret location is enough), Buccellati makes a beeline for one lockbox among about a hundred lockboxes. "Watch the door," he says, fishing a key out of his pocket.
Abbacchio takes his hand companion – it should be worrying, how casual this has started to feel, even with the hand going kind of cold – and does as ordered (see: another order followed). He's fully aware that this is a dummy job fabricated to keep him busy and distracted so that he doesn't see whatever they came here to steal, but he isn't curious enough to argue.
He takes the sound of a zipper being sealed as his cue to turn around, and watches Buccellati tuck the lockbox back into its place on the shelf.
After that, it's a quicker jaunt back the way they came. Abbacchio keeps close to Buccellati as they go, seeing as he's not the one who spent way too many late nights memorizing the layout of this place and he doesn't want to get lost. Holding hands to not get separated doesn't work when the hand you're holding is severed, after all.
The security blackout that Moody Blues set up is on a time limit, so there isn't much time for conversation until they're back in the security office.
"I'll bury him outside," Buccellati says of the security guard, freeing the limp body from the wall and catching it beneath the armpits. "Can you give me a hand?"
Abbacchio tries not to. Knows that now isn't the time for this kind of thing. But in the end he only hesitates a second before he lifts the right hand clasped in his left and asks, "This one?"
Pausing in dragging the security guard toward the door, Buccellati glances up – and his mouth twitches into a smile before flattening to a neutral line. "We don't have time for jokes," he reprimands, but the lightness of his tone and that amused sparkle in his eye give him away. "Put that in your pocket."
"You don't want it back?"
"I'll get it once we get him out of here – we have less than a minute left."
So Abbacchio tucks Buccellati's hand away in his pocket, making sure it's as deep in and secure as he can get it, and then reaches for the head of security's ankles. Together they finagle him outside, past one more hand scanner.
They carry him to the edge of the facility's fence, and then through it courtesy of Sticky Fingers. Out of range of the cameras, Buccellati returns the guard's hand to his arm before Sticky Fingers buries him deep beneath the ground. In pieces. For good measure.
…This whole time, Abbacchio keeps Buccellati's hand in his pocket.
Only while Buccellati hides the body does he pull it out, reflexively slipping his fingers between those of Buccellati's hand. It is a fully comfortable and well-practiced motion, by now.
Which would be a delightful realization, if only this hand were attached to the rest of Buccellati.
But oh well, Buccellati is approaching with his empty right wrist at the ready, so Abbacchio makes to hand the hand back –
Buccellati hesitates for a second. It gives Abbacchio this weird off-kilter fear that he's ruined the hand or something, somehow. He glances down to check on it, and winds up being just in time to witness Buccellati swooping in and reattaching his hand.
Pressing his wrist right to the cutoff and zipping it back together. Just like that.
Without untangling his fingers from Abbacchio's.
Buccellati then takes advantage of this new grip to bring Abbacchio in for a quick kiss. "Thanks for holding this for me," he says. The warmth of freshly circulating blood floods that stiffening hand anew, and fingers take advantage of renewed movement to squeeze Abbacchio's hand.
That smooth bastard. He's got Abbacchio blushing in the fucking moonlight like some kind of cliché…fucking butterflies still at it in his stomach…
Buccellati gives a gentle tug, guiding Abbacchio toward where they parked the getaway car. His thumb brushes over the back of Abbacchio's knuckles as they walk. "Do you think you could hang onto it a little longer?" he asks, putting the icing on the cake as he smiles.
Despite the frenzy unleashed on his insides, Abbacchio manages to grumble a response. "I haven't dropped it yet, have I?"
A/N: Thanks for reading!