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“Hey, Abbacchio!” Narancia’s voice is shrill, and loud, and way too energetic for whatever the time it is. Leone flinches away from the phone, grimaces at the screen — sure enough, it’s just shy of three in the morning. When she brings the phone back to her ear, she feels fully validated in how snappy she sounds.
“Yes?”
“Are you awake?”
She bites back a groan, rubs at her face. She was, not that that’s any of Narancia’s business. “I am now.”
“Good!” Narancia never had trouble brushing off her attitude. “Buccellati’s drunk.”
That gives Leone pause. Her eyes, ever the traitors, fly to the empty bottle of Dolcetto at her bedside table.
She’s already getting out of bed.
“Excuse me?”
“Buccellati’s, like, plastered.” Narancia is laughing. It’s not funny. Buccellati doesn’t…...mess up. “We tried calling them a little while ago because — I’m not snitching!”
Leone can hear Narancia’s fingers tapping against the speaker, like he’s half-assedly trying to mute the sound. Can hear Fugo swearing. Can hear the low reverberating bass, tell-tale sign of a club, somewhere in the background. The image of two kids alone outside a club — outside a club, with Buccellati drunk — is enough to make her taste the acidic reminders of her last night’s liquid dinner.
“We tried calling them and they wouldn’t pick up, so we assumed they were being attacked —” of course. “But Fugo said it’s possible they’re just busy, or something, and that we should check before bothering you.”
Leone is sitting up in her bed, head pounding. Heart pounding. Everything’s a little overwhelming. “And?”
“We found them!” Narancia sounds proud. Leone feels proud. “But they’re, like, so gone, and they wouldn’t leave with us and we can’t go in and kidnap them —”
Fugo’s disembodied voice floats into the conversation. “Yeah, no shit —”
Narancia ignores him. “Because they’re in a club and they told the guards we’re underage.”
Leone draws in a deep breath.
She can almost hear Narancia’s restless shuffling. “So…..are you coming?”
“No, I’m leaving you all to your demise,” she snaps. “Of course I’m coming, you gremlin. Stay put.”
“Okay!” She can visualise Narancia’s beam. “Will you buy us a beer when you get here?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Boo.”
Leone hangs up.
She gets a cab, because even if she feels mostly sober, she’s not endangering even more lives through her pathetic selfishness. The driver gives her a once-over as she grits the address out, and the bitterness is back in full swing — they both know what kind of reputation that particular address has, and the apprehension over what she might have to break up claws at her insides like stomach acid.
Shit. She can’t do that.
She stares out through the window as the driver whistles to himself, and tries not to panic. The Basement is a cruising club— people go there to fuck. Buccellati might be there to fuck. If they are — they’re her higher-up. They’re her adult higher-up. She can’t — she can’t tell them they’re not allowed to have sex, she can’t stop them from doing whatever they want with their life, she should have told Narancia and Fugo to go home and leave their boss alone, this night is ridiculous.
She remembers, through her signature haze, Buccellati’s eyes as they took the half-empty bottle from her hand, there in the back alley she was too drunk to remember the exact location of, back when they first recruited her. Remembers them holding her hair back that one time she drank herself sick, in their presence, remembers the look they gave her one of the many times she showed up at their door drunk and desperate. Remembers them always letting her in.
So she needs to. Fuck. She needs to at least make sure they’re okay.
“We’re here,” the driver announces. Gives her one last sideway glance (Leone glares back). Grins. “Good luck.”
She’s wearing her regular coat, but her makeup is smudged and worn off and there’s a pair of faded sweatpants tucked into her combat boots. She thinks it’s no wonder he’s wishing her luck, because she looks like she’ll need it. She wouldn’t hook up with herself.
Instead, she hands over a generous sum of folded lire.
“Stay here,” she says to his surprised face. “I’ll be back in a few.”
He can’t tear his eyes away from the money. “Okay.”
“There’ll be a drunk person with me,” she tells him, because she’s nice like that. “In case you want to put something over your backseat.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine,” his words are half-mumbled. “Happens a lot.”
Leone thinks about the shit cab drivers must tolerate, on her way to the club, because it’s a good distraction. She wouldn’t last a day as one, she thinks. Tries to look back through all her drunk rides home. Feels pretty certain she at least had the decency to ask the driver to pull over before she vomited.
“She’s here!” she hears her kids before she sees them. Narancia jumps out from the shadows, Aerosmith out and ready — he has a large grin on his face, some dirt on his nose. “Took you long enough!”
“It’s not quite my neighbourhood,” she responds. Nods at Fugo, who’s slowly following suit. “How did you even find them here?”
Fugo cocks an eyebrow in the ‘I know why this is an inappropriate topic’ expression Leone really wants to wipe off his face.
Narancia answers. “We asked around!”
“Ah,” Leone decides thinking too hard about this would just stress her out. “Look at you, boy detectives.”
Narancia winks.
Leone ruffles his hair, then shoves him away gently. “Well, I’m here now, so the two of you can scram.”
Narancia pouts.
“What,” Leone flicks him on the forehead. “Weren’t you getting tired?”
Narancia looks indignant. “Who told you —” he spins around, points at Fugo. “Liar!”
Fugo rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.”
Narancia pouts even harder, but follows suit.
Leone watches them. “Do you need cab money?”
Fugo fixes her with an amused look.
“We get the same paycheck,” he says.
“Shut up,” Narancia turns back around to face her. “I’ll take her money.”
“You have your own money.”
“I can always use more money,” Narancia elbows Fugo. “She’ll just spend it on alcohol, anyways.”
Fugo’s eyes widen a bit. “Narancia —”
“Well, it’s true —”
“Not where she can hear you!”
Leone decides they’ll be fine, and moves for the club.
__
She can’t do this.
The chorus of Britney Spears’ Oops, I did it again hits as Leone takes a swig of the beer she couldn’t talk herself out of ordering (plus, it’s a beer — with her tolerance, it’s basically just a bitter Capri Sun). Leone marvels at the irony. Her eyes keep scanning the crowd.
Leone is familiar with the outline of the place — her career as a police officer might have been tragicomically short but it did have her aid quite a few drug busts, a couple of which had her scouting these very floors. She knows there’s a black room a little further in. She’s way too sober to go in there.
A man slides into the chair next to her.
Well. She fixes him with a cold stare and dares him to try anything, wonders if maybe Fugo is right, if there really is a god, and if this god has a personal vendetta against Leone.
The man smiles. “Leone Abbacchio?”
She freezes. There are about ten ways a conversation can go from there, and she’s in the mood for none of them.
He seems to be awaiting a reply. Leone takes a long swig of her drink, just to make him wait longer.
“Who’s asking?”
He chuckles. “They said you’d be like this.”
Leone feels herself frown.
“Pardon?”
“Buccellati,” they angle their head, nod towards a far corner — sure enough, through the dim lights and dancing bodies, Leone can make out a familiar white-clad silhouette.
At least they’re still wearing clothes.
“Oh,” she says.
“They told me to come get you,” he gives her a once-over (she bristles). “If you want to?”
She doesn’t. Wordlessly, she gets up from her chair — lets him follow her as she moves through the crowd, emboldened with purpose.
People part around her like a biblical metaphor. Someone is stupid enough to try running a hand down her bare chest — she pours her beer over their head without looking, drops the bottle too. The table Buccellati is seated at hovers in her vision like some promised land.
They’ve been expecting her — clearly saw her entire voyage here, cause they’re currently curled up against another stranger, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“Leone,” they slur — and, wow, Narancia wasn’t exaggerating — lean forward. Their face is flushed, hair a mess — their suit is fully unbuttoned, sheer lacy bralette slipping off one-shoulder.
They’re sitting in someone’s lap. Leone gives the person a stare down, almost manages to convince herself the burning in her chest has nothing to do with jealousy, that she’s just concerned —
“Capo,” she says, as a greeting.
Buccellati’s face falls; and they, too, fall back, right into the stranger’s chest.
“She’s always like this,” they say. The person cooes.
“You’re drunk.”
“Awfully perceptive, though,” the woman comments. She looks up at Leone, smiles. “They told us about you.”
They have dark lipstick on, and their hair is light blonde and curled past their shoulders.
Leone ignores her. Stares down at Buccellati.
“Narancia phoned me,” she says.
Buccellati sighs.
“What are you doing?”
They fix her with a look Leone can’t quite read — it’s heavy lidded, intense. One of their hands curls into the stranger’s hair.
“What does it look like?”
Right.
Leone swallows, bitter. She needs so many drinks. Needs to — leave, to leave right now is what she needs. Buccellati seems okay, in a way, or unokay in a way Leone is not authorised to deal with. And she has a cab waiting.
The man from before comes up behind her — she all but flinches away, stares Buccellati down again.
“I’m leaving,” she says.
The woman Buccellati is sitting on is kissing their neck. Buccellati just hums.
Leone turns around without a word.
__
Fugo is waiting for her outside.
“What the fuck,” she all but screams — he ignores her dismay.
“Where’s boss?”
She’s beyond done with this night. “In my pocket.”
He eyes her jacket, frowns, and she realizes that with Buccellati, that might very well be the case.
She sighs. “Inside.”
Fugo’s frown deepens. “You were supposed to get them.”
Leone will scream. “They’re an adult.”
Fugo isn’t backing off. “They’re drunk.”
“Where’s Narancia?”
“They’re drunk.”
“Yeah, they’re having a blast — “
“I sent him home — I am not dropping this.”
Leone crosses her arms.
He imitates the gesture.
“Fucking —” she sighs. She hates this team. “Fine. Stay out of trouble.”
__
“You’re back!” The man from before greets her — she shoulders him out of the way, walks over to Buccellati.
Their jacket is all the way off now, thrown over a nearby chair — Leone tucks it under one arm, comes to a stop right next to where they’re stradling the woman from before.
“Your shitty kid won’t leave until you do,” she informs them.
They lazily roll their head up. Their lips are purple stained.
“My kid?”
“You recruited him.”
They groan.
The woman with cheap lipstick is looking between them. “You two have kids?”
“No.” “No.” They say in the same time — Bruno snorts, slides fully off their lap.
Almost falls over the table. Leone catches them, and ignores the woman’s amused look; Buccellati smells like weed.
“Wow,” Leone deadpans.
They giggle into her ear. “I had...a few.”
“A few of what? Cannabis fields?” She wraps an arm around their torso, for safety, and helps them stand up. “Say bye to your friends.”
Buccellati just pushes for them to move towards the exist.
“I have no idea who they are,” they mutter, halfway out the club.
Leone can’t say she’s surprised.
Fugo visibly exhales as they both emerge. “Finally.”
“Don’t ‘finally’ me,” Leone snaps (Buccellati keeps giggling). “How about you go home before someone calls the cops on you.”
“I’m in the mob,” Fugo says. “Who’s going to arrest me?”
Leone is too tired for this. “Why don’t you advertise it a bit louder.”
“Like, don’t know if you heard about this, but sometimes cops take bribes — “
Leone pushes past him. “Go home.”
He flips her off. “Good night, Capo!”
Buccellati, apparently, thinks this whole thing is hysterical.
The cab driver is still there, somehow. Probably hoping for another excessive tip.
Leone opens the doors with Buccellati still hanging at her side, tries to help them in — they refuse to let go of her coat.
“Let go,” Leone tells them.
They shake their head ‘no’.
Leone sighs. They’re really doing this. “Boss — “
They whine at that, petulant, and tug on Leone’s coat again.
“Stop calling me that.” They rub at their eyes, yawn.
Leone sighs. “Bo — Buccellati — “
They laugh, bitter. Lean against the car door. “Do you have to do everything I tell you to?”
Leone scowls. “What — “
“You’re like a,” their eyes are glazed over. “Like a trained dog, or something.”
Leone bites down on her tongue. “What do you want me to do, then?”
Buccellati fixes them with a look — then they climb into the car, and curl into themselves.
Leone throws their jacket in after them. “Put this on.”
They make a show of throwing it back out.
“Really?” Leone stares at it — picks it up. “Seriously?”
Buccellati isn’t responding.
The cab driver is watching them, visibly awkward — Leone climbs into the passenger seat, barks out her address.
Buccellati has to tell him to pull over, half-way through the ride, and then vomits loudly and gracelessly through the window and onto the sidewalk.
Leone feels oddly vindicated.
__
They can barely walk up the stairs. Leone feels like she’s dragging a dead body — a very warm, talkative dead body.
“You are so ripped,” Buccellati is saying.
Leone is trying not to blush. Drunk people just are that way. “Huh.”
“For real,” they have a hand inside Leone’s coat, pressed against her abs. “Wow.”
It’s a little funny. “Police academy will do that to you.”
“You haven’t been a cop in forever.”
Leone scowls. Mentioning her old profession at all was a mistake. “Old habits die hard.”
Buccellati nuzzles into her neck.
“You’re in a better mood,” she tells them.
They nuzzle her neck again.
She’s just about to laugh — and then there’s a tongue licking up her throat, and she nearly drops Buccellati.
“Boss — “ they still mostly slip out of her grasp, and she reaches out to steady them — they lean into her and she stumbles back, against the walls of her very public corridor. Their hand is still under her coat. “Boss!”
They pause. Retreat their arm.
“Didn’t think I’d live to see you yell at me,” they say.
Leone’s mouth is dry. “Surprise.”
They chuckle. Stumble back.
“Should’ve left me at the club,” they say.
Leone watches them climb the stairs, ready to intervene. “Wanted to.”
“Should’ve.”
They’re making alright progress, all things considered. Keep keeling over sideways, but are yet to fully fall.
“How’d you even end up there?” Leone regrets the words the moment they’re out of her mouth — they clutch onto the banister, look over their shoulder.
“I walked.”
Leone wasn’t sure what she expected. “With your new friends, or…”
They laugh. “With that couple looking for a threeway, you mean?”
At least they’re at the same page. Leone feels her mouth move before she can think better of it. “Since when are you into men?”
Buccellati frowns. “I’m not.”
“Then why — “
“God,I’m not a kid,”
“You’re acting like one.”
They laugh. “Jesus, Leone.”
Leone kind of agrees with that one.
“Also, what — what, Fugo wasn’t going to leave, you could’ve picked him up over your shoulder and carried him home instead,”
Leone looks away. That, indeed, a thing she could have done. She’s eighty percent sure he wouldn’t Purple Haze her.
“You could’ve told me to do that,” she retorts.
They groan again. “Why are you so desperate for orders —”
Leone ignores them. “But you left with me.”
Buccellati presses their lips tight.
“I think you wanted to leave,” Leone says.
Buccellati scowls.
“Careful,” they’d be a lot more intimidating if they weren’t literally swaying in place. “I’ll start to think you’re jealous.”
Leone almost flinches.
“Of what?” she spits before the feelings have a chance to sink in. “Having sex with strangers I’m not even attracted to?”
“Who says I wasn’t attracted to them?”
“You just said you aren’t into men —”
“I was into his girlfriend,” they try to cross their arms, but manage to miss.
“Good for you.”
They curve an eyebrow. “She looked like you.”
Leone might have noticed. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m into you,” they say. “And I think you know that.”
Leone doesn’t know to respond.
“So now that we know you know how to say no, you can — turn me down properly — fuck,” they crouch down. “I’m so dizzy.”
Leone feels detached from her body. “You should go lie down.”
They just whine into their knees.
The rest of the trip is uncomfortably quiet. Buccellati passes out the moment their body hits the bed, though, and Leone thanks the potentially-existing god for granting her that tiny blessing.
She has one last bottle of red wine in her fridge; she pours herself a mugful, so she can pretend it’s tea and she’s a functioning person, and settles down on the couch.
Outside, Naples is starting to wake.
__
Buccellati wakes up seven hours later.
Leone knows this because they storm into the living room the moment they do, wide-eyed and panicked; they lock across the room (Leone is drinking coffee), take in a deep breath, and run right back.
Leone hears the bedroom doors slam shut.
“Fuck!”
Sighing, she gets up from her chair.
“Stop harassing my furniture,” she says, and pushes the doors open. From the other side, they push back. She sighs again. “Buccellati.”
“No,” Buccellati is saying. “No, no, no.”
If Leone was at all a self-respecting individual, she’d be offended. This way, it just stings a little. “You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, Buccellati.”
They stop responding. She pushes at the doors again.
They open this time. Buccellati is back on the bed, head between their knees.
“Nauseous?” Leone asks.
They groan.
“Trash can’s by the bed,” she says. “Try not to miss.”
They flash her a thumbs-up.
“Also, we didn’t fuck,” she adds, with all the nonchalance she can fake (their head snaps up). “So you can stop being weird.”
They stare at her.
She turns to leave.
“Wait —” they call out; she pauses.
Then she remembers the liquor in their breath, the why are you so desperate for orders — so she keeps walking.
“There’s coffee,” she calls over her shoulder. “If you’re interested.”
__
They go to the bathroom first. Leone can hear them walk around the thin-walled apartment, the water running. She’s really trying to give this... act-less-like-a-trained dog-life a try, but she still knocks on the door once the water stops running, and asks Buccellati if they’d like some clothes.
They’re silent for a few beats. Their response is tentative.
“I’d like that.”
Leone says nothing. Leaves a clean pair of sweatpants out for them, a shirt, and retreats back to the kitchen. Her hands shake around the coffee mug as she waits, and she wishes for the millionth time that her life was a little more under control. That her body wasn’t such a traitor.
Buccellati comes out wearing her clothes, and it takes all of Leone’s self control not to run straight for the window.
She greets them with a nod instead, gestures at the extra cup. “Morning.”
Buccellati says nothing. Sits down carefully, reaches for the coffee (there are purple marks going down their neck).
They take a sip in silence. Leone stares out the window.
“I,” Buccellati starts. “Remember nothing.”
Leone hums. “Thought you wouldn’t.”
She makes the mistake of looking their way — they’re staring at her wide-eyed and a little lost, and, hell, she needs a drink.
She masks it with snappy. “Want me to rewind it for you?”
Their eyes turn apologetic. Her self-hate swells.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m the last person who should be giving you shit for what you did drunk.”
“It’s not — “ they shake their head, laugh a laugh that feels forced. “It’s okay.” A beat. “What did I do drunk?”
Leone shrugs. “We could actually rewind it for you.”
Buccellati’s hand comes up to their neck, where the hickeys are. Leone knows they’re both blushing.
“I think I’m fine,” they say.
Leone swallows.
“I picked you up at three in the morning,” Leone says. “You were in the Basement.”
“Ah,” Buccellati frowns. “I vaguely remember that.”
Leone cocks an eyebrow.
Buccellati looks embarrassed. Can’t meet her eyes.
“I — uh — went out for a few drinks,” they clarify. Rub the back of their neck. “It escalated.”
They look good in black. Leone hates them.
“Funny how things do that,” she says.
Buccellati snorts. “God.”
Yeah. God.
“So I went and got you, and brought you here,” Leone finishes. And nothing happened in between.
Buccellati looks at her, as if zoning in on the gaps in her retelling. “What — what was I doing?”
Leone takes a sip of her coffee.
Buccellati looks at her like they know she’s procrastinating an answer but not how to call her out on it.
“Try ‘who’,” she says.
Buccellati’s eyes widen comically.
She snorts.
“Sorry,” she says. “I don’t think you — well, you were making out with someone, but you didn’t take it very far.”
Buccellati nods. Seems a little calmed.
“That explains,” they rub their neck again. “Things.”
“Things,” Leone says.
“Things,” Buccellati confirms.
Leone hums.
“Did I call you?”
Leone stares down at her mug. “No.”
She can feel Buccellati watching her.
She bites the bullet. “Narancia called me.”
There’s a moment of silence. She dares a look up — Buccellati has their face in both their hands.
“Oh my god,” they say. “Oh my god. You should’ve left me to die.”
Leone snickers at that.
Buccellati glares through their fingers.
“Don’t give me that look,” she says. “I’m just noticing how the tables have turned.”
Buccellati groans, and slumps onto the table.
“Kids couldn’t reach you so they assumed you were dying, you know, like reasonable people.” Leone ignores the fact that she would have done exactly the same thing. “They couldn’t get into the club, though, so they called me.”
“Oh god,” Buccellati keeps saying.
“I sent them home, brought you here,” Leone is glad Buccellati is otherwise occupied, because she’s definitely blushing. “And then you passed out, and here we are now.”
“Oh god,” Buccellati says with an air of finality, straightens themselves out.
Fixes Leone with a look Leone does her best to return.
“Thank you,” they say. “For — taking care of it.”
Leone bites down on her lip. Looks away.
“Don’t mention it.”
__
She bites the bullet, again, as Buccellati is getting ready to leave (they’d taken a short nap, because, well, hungover).
“Did you really —” Leone is at the couch, watching Buccellati pull their stained white suit jacket over the oversized black tee. “Did you really think I’d do that to you?”
Buccellati pauses. Looks over, inquisitive.
Leone can feel her face burning, and can’t quite meet their eyes. “You know. Have sex with you when you were — like that.”
Buccellati’s eyes widen. “I —”
“I mean — you clearly did,” Leone can feel her eyes burning now, too. “I just — I wouldn’t.” She wants to curl up into herself. Refuses to. “Just thought I’d — I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Buccellati is quiet.
Leone glances up.
She will die from this one day, she thinks, as she meets the full force of Buccellati’s remorse.
“Leone,” they say.
Leone sucks in a sharp breath.
“I didn’t — I don’t.” They make a move like they’ll step forward, but stay still. “I don’t think you’re that kind of a person.”
Leone raises an eyebrow, hopes to mask how open she feels. “Evidence speaks of the contrary — “
“Leone,” they cut her off. Flinch at their own intensity. Sigh. “Leone.”
Leone lets them do their thing.
“I know you wouldn’t take advantage of me,” they say, slowly. Their eyes are closed. “That’s not what I was afraid of.”
Leone will definitely die from this one day.
She wills her vulnerability to turn into anger. Feels it flicker, safe and familiar, inside her abdomen.
“Right,” she says. Bitterness bites at her words, and it’s good. “Sorry, I forgot, I’m such a fucking trained dog — “
Buccellati’s eyes snap wide, surprised.
“ — that even with you so shitfaced you can’t take a step without somersaulting into the nonexistent traffic, you’d still be the one taking advantage of me — “
Buccellati’s mouth drops open.
Leone can’t stop. “That even with you unable to walk straight somehow I’d be the one in your power — who do you think you are?”
Buccellati’s mouth moves without speaking.
Leone glares.
“Did I,” Buccellati swallows. “I said that.”
Leone sneers. “Shit, boss, good detective work.”
And now Buccellati is glaring too.
And Leone can work with that.
“You know what,” they snarl, step forward; Leone pushes up to her feet, ready to take this however it escalates. “And you know what, Abbacchio? I don’t think I was wrong.”
Leone saw it coming. “I know you don’t think so.”
Buccellati is shaking. “You — “
“I don’t want your fucking pity,” Leone spits. She feels like there’s a pool of, of pent-up bitterness and anger and the dam broke and it’s just happy to be out. “I am not another one of your charity cases — “
Buccellati isn’t flinching. “Don’t — don’t fucking deflect — “
“I’m the last person to be pointing fingers, but your pathological need —”
“Are you actually going there — “
“— to continue taking in strays like some streetwise mother Teresa—”
Buccellati sucks in a breath, eyes a furnace. “Be very careful with your words“
Leone has never been careful in her life. “But despite what you think, we don’t need you to be a fucking saint.”
Buccellati’s jaw snaps shut.
They stand there in silence, for a moment — both are breathing heavy. Both are still staring.
“First of all,” Buccellati says. “Mother Teresa is a scam,”
“Right.”
“Secondly,”
“I’ll find a Catholic saint more suited for your tastes —”
“Better ditch the ‘catholic’ part, then —” They suck in a breath. “Abbacchio.”
Abbacchio throws herself back onto the couch.
Buccellati stares at her. “This isn’t about me fixing you.”
Leone stares at the ceiling.
“I am quite possibly the least qualified person to fix anyone.”
Leone disagrees, but says nothing.
With a sigh, Buccellati is on the sofa next to her. Leone tenses — Buccellati either doesn’t notice it, or doesn’t react.
“I am not trying to play a saint,” they say.
Leone doesn’t dare look at them.
“I don’t — I don’t enjoy having you — well, not you.”
Leone sneaks a look over — they’re slumped over their knees, face in their hands.
“Not you, but the kids — I,” they draw a shaky breath. “I hate being in charge.”
Leone stares.
They glance over their shoulder, then, and their eyes are red.
“Leone,” their voice cracks. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Leone doesn’t know what to do.
She awkwardly reaches out — Buccellati notices the attempt and slides out of the way, laughs, in a way that borders on hysterical.
“You — you don’t need to —” They keel over a bit, still laughing, and then put on what Leone supposes is meant to be an impression of her. “I don’t need your pity — “
“Good,” Leone simply says, deadpan in face of this total insanity. “Cause I don’t pity you.”
Buccellati’s laughter dies down at that; she chuckles again, wipes at her eyes.
“No?”
Leone shakes her head.
“What do you think of me, then?”
Leone sucks in a breath. She brought this onto herself.
“I think you’re very strong,” Leone says. “And a genuinely good person.”
Buccellati doesn’t look convinced.
“And I think it’s going to kill you,” Leone keeps talking. She knows that, if she stops now, they’ll never pick this topic again. “Because you keep caring about absolute fuck-ups.”
Buccellati’s face shifts.
“And I,” Leone shrugs. “I don’t want to be the thing to kill you.”
Buccellati exhales. Closes their eyes.
Leone wonders if they’re, like, going through apotheosis.
“Well,” they say. Open their eyes. “Now you know how I feel about you.”
Buccellati made last few futile grabs for the phone, breathless from laughter and flushed from the impromptu wrestling session. Leone had her pinned under one thigh, hand locked under them both, the other keeping her phone safely out of reach.
“You think you’re so funny,” she told them.
They beamed. “Yeah.”
Leone felt her telltale face smile back.
Buccellati looked awfully proud.
Leone felt awfully fond.
“Well,” she said, before she could accidentally blurt out something incriminating. “You’re not.”
Buccellati dropped her arm against the pillows, pouted.
“Am I wrong, though?”
Leone frowned, then shifted away to release them from the impromptu hold. Pocketed her phone away.
“Maybe not.”
Buccellati’s smile could’ve lit up all of Naples. “Good.” They lifted themselves up onto their elbows, shook their bangs out of their eyes. “We love you too.”
__
“Would you really,” Buccellati asked, during their walk back to their apartment (well. Their walk home. Abbacchio wasn’t sure why she was following). “Tell me, if I did something that made you uncomfortable?”
Leone kept her eyes locked on the tips of her shoes. Felt her ears redden.
“Yeah,” she made herself say. It wasn’t a lie. “I would.”
Buccellati didn’t respond.
They did, however, stop walking — Leone halted with them, glanced up.
Buccellati, thank god, seemed insisted on staring a hole through their feet too. “You —” they licked their lips, shuffled in place. “I’m having trouble believing that.”
Leone pushed a flare of anger back. Enough of that defensive mechanism.
“Okay,” she said. “Why?”
Buccellati looked up in surprise.
Leone cocked an eyebrow.
“You —” They really didn’t seem to have expected a counter-question. “Uh.”
“Uh,” Leone mocked.
Buccellati frowned. “Don’t — you.”
Leone was having a bit of fun with this. “Me?”
“I — “ Buccellati started. “Okay, not to quote my drunk self — “
“No, let her speak.”
“Leone —” they snorted. “Leone — stop making me laugh —” (Leone felt giddy) “God. You are so…”
No words came.
“...Self-destructive,” they finally said.
Leone frowned.
“Well,” she said. “Yeah.”
Buccellati sighed.
“So you think I’d — what?” Leone spat. “Use you as a form of self-harm?”
Buccellati looked away. “You make it sound awful.”
“It is awful.”
Buccellati shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?” Leone shoved her fists deep into her pockets, curled and uncurled them nervously. “Yeah, it’s awful or, yeah, you do think that?”
Buccellati closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Well — then — “ Leone took a deep breath. “Good you’re asking, then!”
Buccellati cracked one eye to peek at her. Smiled.
“Look at us,” they said. “Having adult conversations.”
Leone snorted. “The bar has never been lower.”
“Yeah.”
They started walking again. Leone considered, for a moment, letting the conversation drop like they’d reached any kind of a conclusion.
“I — am trying,” she said, instead.
Because Buccellati was worth not being a coward for.
(Buccellati stopped walking again.)
“I know I’m not — I’m not doing well, at all, really, but — “ talking was difficult. Leone sighed. “I’m trying.”
She could feel Buccellati watching her.
“And I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t make you hurt me.” She met her eyes. “I respect you too much.”
Buccellati blinked. Swallowed.
“I’d sleep easier if you’d said you respected yourself,” they said.
Leone shrugged. “I respect you too much to lie to you, too.”
Buccellati laughed.
“Right,” they said. “Right.”
Leone’s heart was overheating.
“I — like you,” she said. “I really like you.”
Bruno’s eyes widened.
“And I think a part of it is the fact that — you wouldn’t hurt me,” Leone made herself keep going. “Like, you wouldn’t — you wouldn’t use any power you had over people to hurt us.”
Buccellati opened their mouth. “You — “
“And if I found out you were a different kind of a person,” Leone cut her off. “That’d change my opinion of you.”
Buccellati closed their mouth.
“And in that case,” she added. “I can take you in a wrestling match.”
Buccellati was quiet for a long moment.
“Okay,” was all they said.
Then they burst out laughing.
Leone watched them. Wasn’t sure what to do.
“God,” they said. “God, I never thought you’d say it first.”
Leone’s heart skipped a bit.
“What?” she tried to sound nonchalant. She failed. “Did you have a big confession planned?”
“No,” Buccellati kept laughing. “My honest plan was to take it to my grave.”
“Well,” Leone said. Snorted. “Fucked that one up.”
Buccellati stopped laughing.
Leone started.
“What,” Buccelati said. “What — Leone, did I say something?”
A short burst of laughter escaped Leone — she shoved a hand over her mouth, shook her head.
Buccellati looked like she was barely stopping herself from joining in. “Leone!.”
“You said —” god. There were tears in Bruno’s eyes. “God, you said so much.”
Bruno looked horrified (Leone just started laughing louder).
“Oh my god,” Leone slumped against the wall, wrapped both arms around her aching abdomen. “God, we’re going to your place, and then I’m having Moody Blues show you, cause I can’t repeat that.”
Buccellati gawked. “You can’t?”
“Not in public.”
Buccellati smacked their mouth closed. Their entire face was red.
“I hate you,” they said. “I changed my mind. I’m having you relocated.”
Leone continued laughing.
“Oh my god,” they leaned against the wall themselves, laughing into their hand. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah.”
They dropped their arm. Glanced at Leone, sideways.
Leone stopped laughing too.
“Hey,” they said.
Leone blushed. “Hey.”
Their smile grew. “Would you kiss me?”
It took them longer than necessary to get to Buccellati’s apartment.
__
Buccellati lasts whole five seconds of Moody Blues’ replay before they start smothering Leone with a pillow.
__
Come morning, Leone is still at Buccellati’s place.
“The kids must be getting antsy,” Buccellati muses, their fingers ghosting over the shell of Leone’s ear, their chest warm under Leone’s cheek.
Leone just hums.
“When are they not.”
She can feel Buccellati’s laughter all the way to her bones.
“Still.” They reach out for their bedside table, and groan when the phone is still out of reach. “God.”
Leone watches them, hiding her smile against their collarbone. “Want me to move?” She has no intention of moving.
“No,” they respond. “Wait a second.”
There’s the tell-tale sound of Sticky Fingers coming out. Leone screws her eyes shut, groans.
“Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
Leone can hear more zippers. Makes the mistake of cracking an eye open, and immediately regrets it.
“You’re disgusting,” she tells Buccellati, fond.
Buccellati looks awfully serene for someone with their hand unzipped across the room. “Do we have a problem?”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” they successfully knock their phone to the floor, and spend a little while looking for it blindly before they give up and just have their Stand bring it over, like a normal person. “File a complaint, then.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Good.”
Leone is about to retort when she feels a kiss being pressed to the bridge of her spine, soft and ghostly.
She pushes herself up, eyes wide.
Buccellati is smug. Behind them, another zipper sounds.
“Did you just — “ Leone’s voice cracks. “Did you just kiss me with your stand?”
Buccellati shrugs. Pulls their phone to the face, starts typing.
Leone can’t stop staring. Her skin is burning.
Buccellati speaks up again after a minute; still has the phone in their hand, like a defensive barrier.
“You seem affected,” they say.
Leone just grunts.
Buccellati cocks an eyebrow. Lets their phone drop to the floor.
“How’d it feel?” they ask. Still looking away.
Leone knows her face is red.
But so is Buccellati’s, she reminds herself, so she pulls on an air of bravado and leans in a little bit closer, until her hair is framing Buccellati’s face.
She smiles against the crook of their neck. “Why don’t I show you?”
They full body shiver. “Maybe you should.”
She lets them pull her down by the jaw. She thinks she could get used to this.
Abbacchio groans into the pillow — Buccellati, who just got out shower, peeks out through a freshly-zipped gap in the wall.
“Everything okay?”
Leone looks up at them. Their hair is wet, dripping down their neck and bare chest— they have a silky robe half-on, slipping down their shoulders.
She responds with a dreamy sigh.
Buccellati tries to blink impatiently, but there’s a flush creeping up their face.
“Leone?”
“Yeah,” she throws them their phone. “Mista’s worried I buried you somewhere.”
Sticky Fingers zaps out to catch it, and hands it to Buccellati — they study the screen, looking disgustingly fond.
“Aw,” they say. Throw the phone back to Leone (she lets it hit the bed, and continues ignoring it). “Tell him to get the rest of the team and meet us for dinner.”
Leone frowns.
“Leone,” Bruno notices it. “We have to.”
“Do we?”
“You love them.”
Leone looks up at the ceiling. “You can’t prove anything.”
Chuckling, Buccellati moves over to the bed — wordlessly, Leone adjusts her position as to make room, but they ignore it completely and just settle down on her midriff, all soft and glittering.
“Call it faith, then.” They whisper.
Leone can only gawk.
“Now,” they say. They have both hands on Leone’s chest, but aren’t moving. “Before you distract me with your body — “
“Oh, I’m distracting you?” Leone flicks their bare thigh.
Buccellati chuckles, smug. “— why don’t you get dressed, and then we can go see our lovely team members.”
“None of those brats could be described as ‘lovely’,” Leone says.
“Sure,” Buccellati presses a peck to her forehead. “Get dressed.”
“My clothes are all gross.”
Buccellati shrugs. “You can borrow some of mine.”
Leone eyes them. “You’re smaller than me.”
“We’ll find something stretchy.”
“Everything you own is white.”
“Not everything..”
“Okay, but I can’t really go in a bralette.”
Buccellati tilts their head. “Why not?”
Leone feels brave. “Because I’d distract you with my body.”
Buccellati blinks. Splutters a laugh.
“You say it like you don’t always,” they add. Slip off her lap. “I’m sure you can survive one day of looking like a prep.”
At least they’re self-aware. “Well, I’m not.”
Buccellati is digging through their closet, laughing.
Leone rolls over for better view. “Why are you so desperate to put me in your clothes?”
Buccellati gives them a look like it should be obvious. Maybe it is.
“Maybe I just want to see you in white,” they say.
Leone grunts. “Take me to the altar, then.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Buccellati gives them a side-eye.
Leone blinks innocently.
They laugh again. “I didn’t peg you as a white-dress bride, to be honest.”
Leone curls back into the sheets, if only to hide how flustered she is. She doesn’t think she’s doing a very good job.
“I’m not,” she agrees. She never dared imagine herself as a bride.
Buccellati hums. “Plus, it would be false advertising.”
Leone throws a pillow at them.