Work Text:
Your eyes were strained on the clock for god-knows how long. His voice was echoing in your head, as you were mentally replaying his reassuring way of saying goodbye for the millionth time. His usual, cold, cocksure promise of being home by 11 at latest, calling tonight’s hit a low-risk small job, before setting out in the night made your stomach knot to the verge of nausea. It was ten minutes past one and you already lost the sensation in your fingertips from continuously tapping on the kitchen table for the past two hours.
You were cursing and scolding him mentally in the first hour, like an old wife, it was even comical, and if he could have heard it, you two would have had a good laugh over it. But as time passed, you felt smaller and smaller, your skin colder, your palms clammier, your throat more and more dry as the possibility of him never coming home crept into the back of your mind. It was always an option, he often reminded you despite your constant protest against the topic, this was part of dating a mafia man. A hitman, to be correct, and these times the reality bit into your heart a little harder than usual. Your lover, your partner, your sweet companion of years, the man whose arms around you were the closest thing to heaven on Earth, was killing people for a living. He was nothing more than a very professional murderer in an expensive suit, and he wouldn’t be the first to fall victim to his lifestyle.
Half past one. He had never been out for this long without letting you know the reason behind it. Never broke a promise, never missed a date, never made you feel secondary in his life. Prosciutto was a good man, or at least good to you, and while you felt like you could kill him yourself for making you feel like this if he turns up alive, in your heart you were already bargaining with whatever god was up there, to bring him home to you safely, in one piece.
Your mind barely registered the faint scratching coming from the front door, yet you shot up on your feet, only to fall back onto the chair, blacking out a little around the corners of your vision. The scratching became clearer, it was the sound of a key failing to find its way to the keyhole. Like those nights when you hastily tried to open the front door after making out in the taxi on the way home from clubbing all night, only to sloppily make drunken love on the couch and to fall asleep tangled into each other. This memory brought warmth into your heart and power to your limbs, so you hurried to the door with determination. It was him out there, no doubt about it, and a part of you truly hoped that he just went out for some drinks with his team after the job, and got hammered beyond the point of coming home on time. It was very unlikely, still, the most comforting option possible.
As you opened the door, Prosciutto basically fell on you with a tired grunt, his body like dead weight on your shoulders, but instead of the expected smell of alcohol, the heavy, metallic stench of blood filled your senses. As you tried to wrap your arm around his waist, you noticed the wide smear of dried blood on the white door, where he was probably leaning in the past minutes. Your hands were already getting sticky, and your face squirmed in horror when your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, with the off-red stains on your pajama shirt growing more prominent. You tried to lower yourself a bit so that you could match the gaze of your man, who was breathing heavily with his head hanging low.
- Prosciutto, is this your blood? - your voice was weaker than you hoped for.
- Some of it - he huffed, trying to straighten his stance. His right shoulder was unnaturally stiff, and as he tried to support his elbow with his left hand, he groaned loudly in pain, and leaned back onto you. - Okay, most of it.
- Jesus fuckin Christ, and what’s going on with your….
- Tesoro - he said firmly, looking into your eyes. - Bathroom. Now.
You carefully led him through your apartment, noting how his breath hitched at every step, indicating at least one broken rib. The pictures on the wall with that perfect, overjoyed couple looking back at you, seemed to be slightly judging this mess in the dim light. You tried to bite back your tears as you kicked the bathroom door open, and sat him down on the wide edge of your bathtub, carefully removing his shoes, socks and pants. At least his legs didn’t sustain any injuries, which was good news, but as you moved up to take off his jacket, Prosciutto instantly grabbed your wrist with his left hand, gritting his teeth in pain.
- Bring in the scissors from the kitchen - he growled, his voice being even deeper and raspier than usual. - You will need to cut the jacket off of me.
- Cut it off? But… - you looked all over the dark blue, well-tailored worsted wool piece, now fully soaked in blood, remembering the day he first came home in it with a beaming smile, looking like a movie star, ecstatic about his latest paycheck well spent. Tears welled up in your eyes. - This is your favourite….
- Babe - his expression softened, and he gently caressed your arm. - My right shoulder is dislocated, and I cannot put it back while wearing a jacket, and if I try to remove it with my arm sticking out in that angle, I’m afraid I will faint from the pain, or shit myself, or both. And we don’t want that, do we?
- It must be really bad if you are trying to be funny - you let out a dry laugh while wiping off your tears with the back of your hand. - I’ll be right back.
You placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, and tucked his disheveled fringe back behind his ear. The mixture of sweat and blood you could taste on your lips from his skin occupied your mind as you absent-mindedly raked through the drawer under the kitchen counter, looking for the biggest, stainless steel scissors you kept at home. It was more like a weapon and less like a tool, and you cannot remember if you or Prosciutto ever used it around the house before.
You knew all too well, how much Prosciutto loved to fix everything on his own, whether it was a dripping faucet, or a wound, or a ripped shirt, even after years of sharing his life with someone like you. Seeing him slumped at the exact same spot you left him, looking up to you with tired eyes, and a telltale expression of him fighting to hide the pain from you, was truly heartbreaking. You have never seen your man like this before, and you really thought you have seen everything from him.
In the hopes of getting it sewn back one day, you started cutting the jacket along the seams, paying extra attention not to ruin the fabric itself, but the blood seeping out of it under your touch made this task more difficult than you hoped for. Freeing him from the heavy wool garment, you had to hold back your tears once more when you saw his graphite grey shirt also completely soaked in blood.
- The shirt too?
He nodded.
Putting a dislocated joint back in place was a way more arduous task than you have seen in the movies before, and you just did what Prosciutto said, as he seemed way too experienced in the matter. At that point, you didn’t even want to know, so you kept the questions to yourself. You put on some Chopin, as he asked, held his right hand firmly to his body from behind as he asked, closed your eyes as he asked, and kept yourself from vomiting when you heard the wet pop of the joint finding its place and felt your lover’s whole body twitch from the agonizing sensation against you.
After taking a deep breath and acknowledging the good riddance of the tension, you ran the bath, and took the emergency kit out of the cabinet, sorting out the antiseptic, the gauze, the bandage and some adhesive plaster, before turning back to him.
- You of all people - you started while cleaning the blood off of his skin with a wet cloth. - How the hell did you manage to get this roughed up?
- Work, tesoro. You know how it is.
- Yes, I know, and this is not how it is! - you looked him straight in his ever glistening, bright blue eyes. - Prosciutto, what happened?
- I got outnumbered - he shot his glance to the floor while exhaling sharply. - The intel was wrong, and I couldn’t use my stand. There were civilians, I had to go in.
- And I guess you were expected to show up, too - he nodded, while you uncovered more and more wounds, the water down there in the bathtub turning red. - One more question, why didn’t you go to the hospital? Or whatever is that back-alley butchery is called where you guys go after getting injured…
- That was… not an option - he really didn’t like to involve you too much with his job, but you looked at him with an interrogative gaze, and he let out a defeated sigh knowing that he cannot escape. - That is where the job was, actually. Riz got intel that the lead doctor went rogue, giving over medical and stand info to an American gang.
- So you were sent there to clean up.
- Exactly. It seemed easy, the plan was letting Grateful Dead in while I have a cigarette outside, then burning some papers, then picking up a nice amount of cash on my way home to you.
- But there were civilians. Patients? Let’s see… children of crooks in debt, placed there as a bait to distract you?
- That’s my clever girl, give me a kiss - he pulled your chin towards him, and you couldn’t help but smile against his lips. Prosciutto was there, he was alive, and you finally let yourself relax into his presence.
- So you went in - you continued while wringing the crimson cloth into the bathtub. - Wait, where is your pistol?
- At the HQ, I had to leave it there to be repaired. Don’t ask.
- You were at the HQ and they let you go looking like this? Who was there on duty? Formaggio? Melone? I’m going to flay them alive!
- Calm down, gattina - he snickered, but held his side as the pain from the broken rib jolted through his body. - If anyone was there, they were sleeping already, I just left my stuff on the table with a note. Okay, now let me get up, I need a cigarette.
- The fuck you need a cigarette. With your blood pressure, and this kind of blood loss - you placed your hands on your hips. - Also, they were in your jacket, probably drenched too - He huffed, and shook his head, with a smile spreading on his face.
- All right, let me take a look in the mirror then - he stood up, taking a thorough look at his many injuries, some bullet grazes, some bruises, some cuts, most of them still oozing blood. - Bring in some whisky and two glasses if you may. We are celebrating.
- Celebrating? - You chuckled in disbelief, locking your eyes with his through the mirror.
- Tonight we are taking our relationship to the next level - he said, examining a particularly deep cut on the backside of his ribs. He turned to face you. - Because tonight, my love, I am going to teach you how to stitch up a wound.
It took you a second of blinking at him with hollow eyes. That was just so out of character for him, the man with a longer skin routine than yours, and the man almost ridiculously peculiar about the state of every inch of his flawless body. You decided to chalk it up for the blood loss.
- You really want me to do this? - you grazed your fingertips over his arm. - It surely will leave a scar if you let a rookie like me near your skin.
- Look how deep and nasty it is. Also, I cannot reach it properly. And you know, I actually wouldn’t mind getting a scar from you, it would be a nice change to have one worthy of remembering. Will you be a good girl and do this one for me? - He stepped closer to you, his left hand caressing down the small of your back as he pressed his forehead against yours.
- How could I say no to you - you whispered, and held his face in your hands.
You knew he was bleeding and in a considerable amount of pain, but that didn’t seem to bother any of you, at least not for that one, placid moment. You studied his face as if you still couldn’t believe he finally came home to you after those excruciating hours of waiting, and Prosciutto, well, he was looking into your eyes as if he knew exactly what you were thinking about.
- One more thing, tesoro - he leaned close to your ear to break the silence at last, in a hushed tone. - I know I made you angry. You worried about me, and I bet you were eating yourself alive waiting for me. It’s alright if you are mad at me, but please, do not think I don’t know what is at risk. I know I fucked up tonight, but I will always come home to you, as long as I am able to.
The tears you choked back in the past hours now let themselves flow without a barrier, and you buried your face into the crook of his clavicle, shaking. There was no further need for words, you just stood there, melting into each other’s embrace, trying to protect that little, perfect, safe haven you had amidst the kind of world your love was thrown into.
Finally, you broke the hug with some gentle pats on his hip, and for a split second you could have sworn that you saw Prosciutto wiping away some tears too. God, he was beautiful. Beautiful, but bleeding, a matter that needed immediate assistance from your end.
- All right carino, let me patch you up - you said in a cheerful tone, turning to the emergeny kit. - I put on that white satin bedding you love so much, and if you bleed through that, I’ll have to murder you.
He let out a hearty laugh, as far his ribs let him.
- As you wish, my love.