Chapter Text
Bucciarati has some extra time on his lunch break. There’s a shopping center not far from where he works. He walks along, peeking in at a couple of little stores. A bakery. A knick-knack shop. A children’s boutique. He can still hear the waves from the sidewalk.
He likes it here.
A little further down, at the corner of the street there’s a department store. Bucciarati goes in.
It should be easier to get what he needs here.
Bucciarati walks past the fancy jewelry displays-- the makeup counter and the perfume section. He makes his way to a very specific corner of the store.
The kids section.
Bucciarati takes his time-- as much as he has before he needs to head back. He carefully picks out five little outfits-- some bigger, some smaller-- draping the clothes over his arm as he chooses them.
And when he’s done there’s no point in hanging around. He heads for the nearest exit. It lets out onto a little side street-- not the main road but it shouldn’t take him long to loop back around.
Bucciarati holds the clothes close as he comes to the end of the alley.
Just around the corner there’s a man.
A tall man in a uniform, with a mostly eaten slice of pizza in one hand, looking off, seeming kind of distracted. Until he sees Bucciarati, and he looks right at him.
Bucciarati looks back, kind of stunned.
He wasn’t expecting to see a cop. But he just nods at him, and keeps walking.
The cop nods back.
Bucciarati doesn’t miss a step. He walks past him, looking ahead, evenly.
“Excuse me.”
And when the cop says something he thinks, maybe he should just keep going. But he remains calm. And stops in his tracks, turning back with a curious expression. “Yes officer?”
“No bag for your purchases?”
Bucciarati nods. “I don’t need one.”
“Hm.” The cop shifts his weight a little, looking Bucciarati up and down, “you gotta receipt?”
After considering the question for a moment, Bucciarati nods, “Of course.” He digs a scrap of paper out of his pocket, and hands it to the cop.
He takes it with the hand not holding the pizza, seeming satisfied.
Bucciarati turns away, and keeps walking.
“Excuse me.”
Bucciarati stops, again. And while he’s facing away from the cop his face twists with exasperation.
This is so unlucky.
The cop examines the little paper, scarfing down the rest of the pizza in a couple of bites. And when he swallows he says, coldly, “This is a receipt for a sandwich.”
“Oh,” As Bucciarati turns towards him, his eyes go a little bigger. Innocent. “My bad,” he digs in his pocket again, “Hm. Well, I must have left it somewhere. Sorry about that.”
“Why don’t we go ask the sales clerk.” The cop takes a step in, glaring. He looks Bucciarati up and down-- observing the dark lines traced over his chest-- peeking out from his partially unbuttoned shirt.
And now that he’s this close, Bucciarati gets a look at his nametag.
“Abbacchio.”
He blinks, at the sound of his own name.
“I think we both have better things to do. I paid for these clothes. I have to get back to work.”
Abbacchio’s hand lands on Bucciarati’s shoulder.
Bucciarati tenses up.
“Look. I’m trying to be nice,” condesendingly, “You and I are going to go talk to the clerk about your purchase.”
Bucciarati’s instinct is to kick the cop in the groin and run. But something stops him from doing that. And he doesn’t know what to do.
He takes a deep, agitated breath.
***
Bucciarati walks into his father’s house, carrying a shopping bag full of kids clothes.
“BRUNO’S HERE”
“BRUNO!”
The kids get up from where they were, watching TV in the living room nearby, and rush over to greet him.
Bucciarati smiles, getting down on his knees so that he’s closer to their level.
Narancia and Giorno hug him. He reaches over and pats Mista on the shoulder, Fugo on the head. “Were you kids good for your grampa?”
“YEAH!” They assure him eagerly.
Bucciarati smiles. He finds Trish-- the smallest, and the newest member of their little family. As Bucciarati straightens up, he goes and plucks her off the ground and holds her on his hip.
Paulo comes into the entryway. “You’re taking them away from me already?”
“Hah. Sorry.”
“Stay a minute.” Paulo gestures further into the home, “Come talk to me, Bruno.”
“Hm.” Bucciarati nods.
“Soo can we watch some more TV?” Mista asks eagerly.
“Sure.” Bucciarati waves them off.
“YAY!”
Fugo and Mista and Giorno go. Narancia hangs back, “C’mon Trish!”
Bucciarati sets her down.
She looks up at him for a moment, then over at Narancia.
He offers her his little hand.
She takes it with hers, even littler.
And they go off towards the living room.
Bucciarati and his father sit at the kitchen table not far off.
“What did you get?” Paulo asks, indicating the shopping bag.
Bucciarati glances at it. “Just some clothes for the kids…”
“Good, good.”
Bucciarati leans with his elbows on the table in front of him.
“Do you want something to drink?”
He shakes his head, his expression kinda blank.
Slightly concerned: “Bruno…?”
Bucciarati looks at the bag. And he thinks, maybe if he had just admitted to the cop that he couldn’t afford the clothes, he would have understood. Maybe Bucciarati could have gotten out of the situation without losing a week’s worth of grocery money. Maybe he was too proud.
“I shouldn’t have bought them. They’re too expensive. I was in a situation…” he shakes his head, “a really stupid situation…”
Paulo nods, slowly, uncertainly. “Hm…”
“I think the kids will like them, though,” Bucciarati tries to sound hopeful.
“I can try to help with the finances.”
Sternly. “Dad...”
“Lots of people my age go back to work.”
Even more stern. “Dad. You already do enough…” he shakes his head, “if you weren’t here to help with the kids, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“I want to help…”
“I appreciate it,” Bucciarati assures him, “But… I can’t ask any more of you. It’s not your responsibility. I’m the one that decided to take them in.”
Paulo considers this. He leans a little closer to Bucciarati. “You decided to take them in as your own. Which makes them my grandchildren…”
Bucciarati smiles, slightly. And, after a moment, he nods.
“I’m glad you decided to become a father, Bruno… I think you’re very suited for it...”
“But?”
“But…” Paulo sighs, “taking responsibility for five children, all on your own…” he shakes his head, “it’s too much for just one person.”
“Hm.”
“I hope you’re open minded…” Paulo shrugs, “to the idea that, maybe someone will come into your life… someone who can help take some of the burden. Help care for your kids… maybe take care of you too.” He adds, eagerly, “Sometime soon, maybe.”
Bucciarati pushes his lips together for a moment. “I’ll… keep that in mind, Dad.”
***
“Bruno! Bruno can I get a soda??”
“No, Narancia.”
“Awe.”
Bucciarati’s sitting at a round table towards the back of the pizzeria with the kids. They’re almost finished eating.
It’s a treat to come here, and they do it every so often. And maybe on a day like today it’s hard to justify, but the kids love it, and Bucciarati enjoys it too.
“Let the kid have a soda, Bucciarati.”
It’s the owner of the pizzeria-- Risotto-- standing over at the counter-- leaning over and looking at them.
Bucciarati shoots him a bit of a glare. “It’s bad for his teeth.”
Narancia crosses his arms.
Risotto pulls out a half dozen soda cans from a fridge nearby, “It’s on the house.”
Narancia gasps. And all five kids look at Bucciarati, with anticipation.
Bucciarati sighs. “Okay.”
“WOOHOO!”
The kids all rush over to the counter.
“Tell Mister Risotto thank you.”
“Thanks Mister Risotto!”
“Grazie!”
“Thanks!!”
When the kids have all gotten their drinks, and cracked them open-- Mista helps Trish open hers-- they start gulping them down excitedly right away.
Risotto looks over at Bucciarati, still seated, and indicates the last can of soda. “Got one for you too.”
Bucciarati looks at him for a moment. Then he gets to his feet, goes over, and accepts the drink. “I appreciate it, Risotto.”
“Must be pretty bad if you can’t even afford some drinks for your kids, Bucciarati.”
Bucciarati pops open the soda can, and sips at it, without saying a word. The two of them go way back. He’s messing with him. But it still doesn’t feel great.
Risotto watches him for a moment. “We could always use an extra set of hands around here. A dishwasher, or a busboy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Just then Mista drops his can, and it sprays soda all over the place.
“NOOO!”
“THAT WAS YOUR FAULT!”
“YOU GOT ME WET!”
“WAHH!”
Bucciarati sighs.
***
It’s dark out when they leave the pizzeria. It’s getting late, and Bucciarati’s ready to be home.
“Who are those people?” Fugo asks as they make their way down the sidewalk.
“What people?” Bucciarati looks around.
“By our car…”
Bucciarati’s heart sinks as he sees the figures Fugo was talking about. It’s dark so he can’t make them out that well. He sees a cop car not far off.
“Kids…” Bucciarati steps in front of them, “Go back in the restaurant. This’ll just be a minute…”
The kids step back a little.
Bucciarati waves them off, “Mista, Narancia…”
At the sound of their names, the two older kids help guide the rest of the group back into the pizzeria.
Bucciarati walks up to where his car is parked on the street. “Good evening!”
The two officers kinda jump at his loud tone of voice.
“Oh, uh,” one of the cops tips his hat to Bucciarati. They’re both a little smaller and less intimidating than the one he saw earlier. One of them is holding a pad of paper. “Good evening… is this your car?”
Bucciarati leans on the car, smiling. “That’s right.”
“Oh!” The other cop smiles back, “I’m Officer Pesto!”
“And I’m Officer Ragù.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“And we were just writing you a ticket!” Pesto adds, indicating the pad in his hand.
Bucciarati keeps smiling. He tilts his head a little one way. “Does it take two of you to write one ticket?”
The two cops consider this for a moment.
“Well,” Ragù explains, “we’re still in training…”
“What’s the ticket for?” Bucciarati’s smile fades.
Ragù indicates the space between the curb and the car, “You can’t park more than ten inches from the sidewalk, sir.”
“We measured,” Pesto assures him, “You parked eleven and a half inches!”
“I won’t let it happen again,” Bucciarati promises them, “Look. Here’s the thing. I can’t pay a ticket right now.”
“Then, you can do community service,” Ragù points out.
“I can’t do that either,” Bucciarati adds, allowing a slight emotional edge to his voice, “I know you guys are in training, and you’re trying to impress your superiors, but, I’m in a bit of a rough patch and I could really use a break right now. If you let me off with a warning, I promise it won’t happen again.”
Ragù looks a little uncertain. He turns to Pesto, who seems moved by Bucciarati’s words.
Bucciarati’s eyes go a little wider-- pleading-- he’s so close.
Just then another cop car shows up.
Bucciarati’s pleading expression falters.
What now.
“Oh!” Pesto looks over, eagerly, “He’ll know what to do…”
Disbelief and indignation rise up in Bucciarati’s chest as the cop gets out of the car.
It’s the same tall man from earlier.
“Abbacchio!” Pesto calls him over, “We were just, uh--”
When Abbacchio approaches them-- when he sees Bucciarati-- recognition lights up in his face for a second. Then amusement. A kinda-- ‘Oh wow this must be a shitty day for you’ kinda amusement. He looks Bucciarati over-- noticing the shopping bag he’s still carrying. His gaze lingers on his arms, and his chest, the spaces his shirt leaves open and the ink marks there. Then he looks him in the eye.
Bucciarati looks back at him, evenly.
“What’s the problem?” Abbacchio directs the question to the two junior cops.
Once again, Ragù indicates the space between the curb and the car, “We measured the distance here, and, it’s supposed to be ten inches, but--”
“For Christ’s sake,” Abbacchio cuts him off, “Have you two dumbasses really spent this whole evening measuring curbs? Have you done ANYTHING productive since I saw you last?”
They both kinda freeze up.
“His car’s not impeding traffic. We don’t write tickets for bullshit like that,” Abbacchio rolls his eyes, “Dumbasses.”
“Sorry, sir,” Pesto hangs his head.
Ragù does too, “Sorry.”
For a moment, Bucciarati feels a sense of relief.
Abbacchio takes a second to look over Bucciarati’s car. Then he looks at Bucciarati, again. “You gotta license?”
That relief didn’t last long. Bucciarati tells himself he has nothing to be worried about-- he HAS nothing to be worried about. “Of course.” Bucciarati pulls out his wallet, and hands it over.
“Bucciarati…” Abbacchio says, thoughtfully.
Bucciarati crosses his arms. He can’t believe this. Is it over yet.
“Your car? It’s registration is up to date?”
“Of course.”
Abbacchio gestures towards the car. “Lemme see the papers.”
Once again, Bucciarati tells himself he has nothing to worry about. He opens up the passenger door, finds the papers quickly, and goes back to the cops. “Here.”
Abbacchio grabs the papers, and looks through them, briefly. “Registration’s expired.”
Bucciarati feels a deep sense of dread. “I’ll take care of that as soon as I can.”
“It’s expired,” Abbacchio repeats, shooting him a bit of a glare, “you should have taken care of it already.”
Bucciarati resists the urge to glare back. “Is that so…” he leans in to get a better look at the papers-- taking a step towards Abbacchio-- a heavy step-- and, maybe on accident-- he ends up stepping right on Abbacchio’s foot.
Abbacchio flinches, just about dropping the papers in his hand.
“Whoops,” Bucciarati takes the papers. “It expired in September. That wasn’t too long ago.”
“It doesn’t matter how long ago it was.” Abbacchio barely contains a sneer, as he pulls out his own pad, and starts writing a ticket. “It’s expired.”
Bucciarati closes his eyes for a second. He takes a deep breath.
“Bucciarati, right?” Abbacchio asks.
“That’s right.”
Abbacchio finishes writing, and curtly hands the ticket over to Bucciarati.
And Bucciarati doesn’t want to take it. He doesn’t really want to argue either. He decides to try one last time. “I have kids…” and he finds himself suddenly being completely honest, “I don’t have the time or the money to deal with this right now. I’ll take care of the registration-- that’s already gonna put me back some.” He takes a deep breath, looking Abbacchio right in the eye. “Can you cut me a break?”
Pesto and Ragù, looking on, intrigued, turn to Abbacchio.
And maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to look weak in front of the junior cops. Maybe it’s because Bucciarati stepped on his foot. But in Abbacchio’s mind it’s most likely just because he’s not a very nice person.
“I can’t.” He shoves the ticket into Bucciarati’s chest.
Once again Bucciarati feels the instinctive urge to kick him in the groin.
***
When Bucciarati gets home, he shows the kids the clothes he bought them. They seem to appreciate it, some more so than others. Overall, it’s not the most exciting thing in the world to them. Bucciarati understands.
He hangs out with the kids for an hour or so, then he puts them to bed.
And he likes having the kids around. He’s happy to have them in his life.
But he feels a sense of relief when they’re finally in bed. It’s nice to have some time to himself.
He washes his face and brushes his teeth.
And he gets into his bed, and lays down.
It was a long day. He’s ready to fall asleep, but he can’t right away. He’s doing little calculations in the back of his mind, trying to figure out what needs to be done to make ends meet.
As he lays there in the double bed he wonders, briefly, about what his father said. He wonders what it would be like to share this bed with someone. But his mind can barely linger on that thought before he’s back to crunching numbers.
Eventually he manages to clear his mind. And he settles in, and tells himself to get some sleep.
But just then, the door creaks open.
Bucciarati sits up in bed.
There’s a small figure standing in the doorway.
It’s Trish.
And it kinda surprises Bucciarati, to see her there. In the short time Trish has been with them, this hasn’t happened yet. It worries him. “Trish?”
“I… um…” she works her little hands together, clearly unsure what to say, “I got scared…”
Bucciarati gets out of bed, and walks over to her. He squats down so he’s on her level. “What is it? What scared you?”
She shrugs her little shoulders. “I saw something scary…”
“Hm.” Bucciarati considers her. He considers this problem for a moment. “Would you like me to check your room for monsters?”
She nods big.
“Okay.” He smiles, and holds his arms out.
She wraps her arms around his neck , and he picks her up.
“Let’s see.”
He takes her into her room next door, and they check thoroughly— in the closet, under the bed, in each drawer of her dresser and even under the rug.
And he tucks her back in, and sits at the foot of her bed for a minute.
“You think you can get to sleep now?”
She thinks for a moment, and nods.
“I’ll be right next door.”
“Okay…” she shifts in her blankets a bit, “sorry I got scared…”
“Trish.” Bucciarati shakes his head. “You don’t need to be sorry. Everyone gets scared. I get scared.”
“Really?” She asks, stunned.
“Well… yes.”
“What are you scared of?”
Bucciarati can’t really bring himself to say he’s scared of getting kicked out of this house for not paying rent. He can’t exactly tell her he’s scared of being reliant on his father again after all these years. He can’t admit that he’s scared of what would happen if one of them got sick.
“Monsters.”
She nods, knowingly.
“But we’ll be okay,” he adds, with a smile.
“Yeah…”
He reaches over and pats her hand. “Get some rest now.”
“Okay.” She settles in, and closes her eyes.
Bucciarati waits there at the foot of her bed for a few minutes. It doesn’t take long for Trish’s breathing to get heavier. He watches her a little longer, then he carefully gets up. And he leaves the room-- closing the door-- carefully.
And once he’s in the hallway he sighs to himself, and he closes his eyes for a moment. And he knows that, whatever he has to do to make ends meet, he’s going to do it.