Chapter Text
There's a body on the beach.
Leone Abbacchio pulls his old beater of a truck to a stop, and stares into the wan moonlight, trying to make the shape out. It can't be anyone from here, because he knows everyone here. They're all tucked into bed, even the night fishermen, because a storm is rumbling in and they're smart enough not to take their dinghies into the angry waters.
Leone steps out of his truck, pale hand tight on the doorframe. “Hey!" he calls, in case they're conscious, alive. “Hey, are you okay?!"
No response. Leone's stomach twists with the possibility that there's a corpse on his island, a corpse that may have been involved in foul play. Which means he'll have to take it to the mainland police, a task he's not too keen on taking on.
The salt wind blows impatiently against his face and drags wispy fingers through his silvery hair, urging him like lips on his neck to turn back, to get back in his car and go home.
It's late, she whispers. You need to rest.
Leone furrows his brow. Luckily he's never been too interested in the coo of a woman.
He jogs down the dunes, the marram grass hissing past his heels and chittering with the grains of sand he kicks up, retreating from his steps as if threatened dogs. There's sand in his shoes but there's always been, since he moved here, and he slides against the skiff of the sand as it roils in on itself. Leone slows his pace as the slope eases and dry land gives way to the wet of recent tide, and he picks through the nets of seaweed and kelp that coat the beach like fur until he reaches the body.
Leone stands above it uncertainly, hesitation grabbing at his shoulders and keeping him from bending. It's half submerged, its left arm drifting lazily in the waves. He's not quite sure there's any hope of the person being alive, but just as he thinks that they drag in a shallow breath. Leone shakes the apprehension from his chest and crouches to examine them. There's a trail of red that darkens the pool they lay in and mats their dark hair to their skull, and they're resting on one forearm as if merely taking a nap. Their clothes are soaked through and a little tattered, and chunks of shredded wood trail down the coast for a few hundred yards as far as Leone can see.
This person must've been caught in the storm from the mainland and pulled here, Leone figures. He gently pulls them farther up shore under their arms, and turns them so he can see their face. Once he does, he freezes.
Blood stains the left side of his face, but that's not what shocks Leone. It's the curve of inky bangs and the round angles of a friendly, familiar face that holds Leone's breath fast in his lungs.
He knows this man.
Memories bombard him left and right like flash bombs and he hears echoed gunshots, sees red, feels the pressure of a warm hand on his shoulder, before he pulls himself back to the present and feels the cold wind on his face once more.
I told you , she seems to hiss at him, frustration booming in the thunder.
Leone feels shakes wrack his body, clutching against his ribs, and he pulls the man into his arms and stumbles with him up the dunes from which he came. The sand is cruel now, pulling his feet under hungrily, and the marram grass laughs at him in the gale. Leone grits his teeth against its humiliations, and propels himself up the last little stretch until his soles meet pavement, and he hauls the man into the back seat of his truck. There are no towels with which to warm his soaked body, so Leone hops in the driver's seat and cranks up the heat in an attempt to warm his unwitting guest to a liveable state, and speeds to the small hospital at the end of town.
“He'll live," the nurse tells Leone after about an hour. “He's awake and seems coherent enough."
Leone sighs relief. “Oh, good, okay, thank you--"
“But," she cuts him off, voice grave, “he doesn't remember anything other than his name and the fact that he got caught by surprise in the storm. Doesn't remember where he lives, what his occupation is, or whether he has any family.”
Leone's heart sinks. “Will he be okay?" he asks worriedly.
“With time he should remember some things, if not all. But we'll have to keep him on the island until we know where he belongs. Mr. Abbacchio, you wouldn't mind lodging him, would you? Since you found him and all.”
Leone frowns; the idea of adding someone else to his satisfyingly solitary lifestyle isn't quite tasteful, but he feels he owes this man. “Sure, I can do that," he says after a moment of chewing his cheek. "I can also try to find out more about him since I'm still loosely affiliated with mainland police.”
The nurse nods. "Yes, thank you,” she sighs. "Would you like to see him?”
Leone grunts an affirmative and follows the nurse to where the man--his name starts with B, Leone knows that...maybe Bruce?--is currently being watched. She opens the door and smiles at the patient.
“Bruno? Your savior's here to see you."
Ah, Bruno. That's what it was.
Bruno slowly drags his eyes to Leone's, looking somewhat hazy but alert enough to smile politely. His head is wrapped and he looks tired, and Leone doesn't blame him.
“Hey," is all he can manage after a moment. "How are you doing?”
Bruno rubs at his eye. "Don't remember much and my head hurts but I think I'm good," he mutters.
"I thought you were dead, to be honest,” Leone says after a moment. "It's a miracle you survived.”
Bruno hums agreement and stares at his hands for a moment. “Thank you," he mumbles. “For saving me."
Leone just stops himself from telling him 'I was just repaying the favor.’ He doesn't entirely want to focus on that memory right now.
“It's nothing," he shrugs instead. There's a long, awkward pause, and Leone doesn't know where to land his eyes. The nurses appear to have at least rinsed the blood and sand from Bruno's hair, as it hangs in dark clumps around his face and sticks to his cheeks. His hands wring over themselves in his lap, tan, calloused mariner's hands, with sand under short fingernails and white scars that score across his skin as if he's slipped with a knife or hook on more than one occasion. His downturned eyes are blue like the onset of nightfall and deep with confusion and Leone's seen those eyes before, when they were bright, concerned, wet with rain at midnight.
Leone clears his throat. “I... don't know when they’ll let you out of here," he starts. "But they've instructed me to house you until you're well. I can help to the best of my ability to find out who you are and where you belong, too.”
Bruno watches him with easy scrutiny, like it's part of his nature, practiced, to be wary of others. Leone can't say he blames him. Life on the mainland can easily take a turn for the worse. But nothing about him proves his wariness hostile, only the slightest bit worried. Everything about him is gentle.
“I'd appreciate that," he says after a moment, and it's genuine. “What was your name again?"
Leone hesitates. “Just call me Abbacchio."
“Thank you, Abbacchio. I look forward to your aid.”
Leone dips his head in a nod. "I'll come pick you up when they let you out,” he says, voice gruff in his throat. Bruno nods cooperation and Leone closes the door behind him.
He's just reached his truck when he sways on his heels, dizzy. He looks at his watch. It's almost two in the morning, his body is complaining with exhaustion, and he's still reeling on the edges of the fact that his past has, even by mere coincidence, followed him here, where he thought he'd be free of its grasp. A brief wave of anger swells in his chest and crashes onto the corners of his mind and he punches the old metal doorframe of his vehicle, forcing his memories to remain below the surface.
The heat subsides and Leone clenches his teeth, letting out a hiss that blows over the now-raw skin of his knuckles and chills them to stinging.
His ride home is long and white-knuckled and silent.