Chapter Text
Knock knock knock
Mascara-crusted eyes blink open, meeting the almost painfully bright shade of the ceiling, courtesy of the stream of light coming from those curtains that never seemed to shut properly. Unconsciously, Leone holds his breath, waiting for the sound that so rudely awoke him to repeat itself. Ten seconds pass, twenty, thirty, until he allows himself to shut his eyes once again. If it was anything urgent, they would've knocked again, right? Or perhaps it was just the remnant of his drea--
Knock knock knock
With a frustrated groan, Leone rips the covers off of himself as he sits up in his bed, kicking at the fabric where it had tangled with his long legs. Who the hell is banging at his door at... 10:47, a quick glance at his digital alarm clock tells him. Well, okay fine, that's not so bad. But still, it's his day off - one he'd planned to spend in bed for the most part.
So far for that plan.
Begrudgingly, Leone plucks a clean-enough pair of sweatpants from the floor of his bedroom, taking his sweet time to trudge to the front door of his sad excuse of an apartment once he'd clumsily pulled on his pants. Perhaps the rude visitor would get tired of waiting and eventually leave, meaning he could then return to bed and go straight back to his original objective of sleeping the day away. Fingers card through sleep-mussed hair in a half-assed attempt at untangling some of the knots that had formed during the night, but his hand drops by his side in defeat for the sake of undoing the locks once he reaches the front door. Then, he opens the door with such unnecessary force that its hinges whine in protest.
"The fuck do you want--" comes the knee jerk reaction that he'd readied the moment he got out of bed, only for the sentence to die on his tongue upon noticing just who was standing before him.
A mop of bright pink hair frames an uncharacteristically miserable face. And upon closer inspection, Leone could spot red-rimmed eyes and stiffened, slightly trembling shoulders.
"You look like shit," supplies his useless brain, because that's apparently the right thing to say to a teenage girl crying at your doorstep. "Come in."
Trish does, after a few seconds of silent hesitation. She's got her arms wrapped around herself while she steps inside, eyes now pointed at the fluffy house slippers she hadn't bothered to change out of. There was no need, she lived next door after all.
--
Leone wasn't at all prepared for anything like this; sitting across from the still sniffling girl at his barely used dining table while nursing a cup of black coffee between his hands. Trish has been staring into her own cup of chamomile tea for the past five minutes, still not talking, and the older man is starting to lose his patience. Comforting others has never been a strong suit of his, and he's still unclear as to why Trish is feeling blue in the first place, and coming to him of all people.
"Stop looking at me like that," come her first words since she came knocking at his door. And despite the rudeness, Leone is relieved that the tense silence is finally broken.
"Like what?"
"Like..." Trish' brows pinch together as she gestures vaguely with her hand. "That."
A heavy sigh falls off of Leone's lips, and his entire demeanour deflates along with it. Teenagers are fucking impossible.
Trish, in the meantime, had returned to picking at her peeling nail polish, leaving little specks of it on the table. A nervous habit Leone has witnessed before from the young girl whenever she was uncertain, or getting called out on something she wasn't supposed to be doing. The urge to grumble at her for making a mess on his table is strong, but a better idea replaces it instead.
"Stay here," Leone instructs redundantly as if Trish was planning on moping anywhere else but this exact dining table, before getting up from his seat. Said moping teenager looks up in mild confusion, fingers still plucking at her nails when the older man walks out of sight.
He reappears a minute or so later with a little zipper bag in his hand, and pulls over a chair to sit at the corner of the table beside his guest. Wordlessly, the bag is zipped open, and Trish leans a little closer to peek inside. Various nail polish bottles are pulled out, along with a nail file, a small container of acetone, and some cotton wads. Trish opens her mouth as if to say something, only to shut it again while Leone collects the flecks of chipped nail polish from the table.
"Pick a shade," he grumbles while getting up to dispose of the dried polish and wash his hands.
"Such a hard choice, black or slightly tinted black," Trish mutters under her breath, but loud enough for Leone to hear the petulant pout in her voice.
"Ditch the attitude, it ain't cute."
Leone returns with a damp kitchen towel in his hands, folding it over and placing it on the table between the two of them while Trish shakes the half empty bottle of purple nail polish. Once everything is ready to go, he holds out his hand, meeting the girl's gaze for a moment before she relents and offers her own in turn. Leone makes quick work of properly removing the remaining chipped polish with the acetone, wiping her hands with the damp towel to get rid of the residue. There are still no words shared between the two of them, but the slowly smoothing crease between Trish' brows and the slight relaxation of her shoulders don’t go unnoticed.
It's when Leone holds a narrow hand in his own larger one and starts filing away any nicks and uneven edges that she finally decides to speak up, albeit hesitantly.
"How old were you when you first moved out to live by yourself?"
Two-toned eyes lift from the task at hand to regard the girl before him for a moment, but their gazes don't meet as Trish is pointedly looking at the way the older man makes quick work of prepping her nails. The question comes somewhat unexpected, but Leone understands. After all, he is also a master of avoiding difficult situations and conversations he doesn't want to have, as well as beating around the bush.
"A year older than you," he answers while wiping the dust off of Trish' nails with the towel, wondering what she is going to do with the answer. Perhaps it's just curiosity; he's caught her asking personal questions to the rest of their team while they were still on the road together weeks ago. And even now, when the initial rush of adrenaline and action and multiple near-death experiences had subsided into mere memories and the occasional nightmare, they don't really know each other all that well. Since Trish has more or less officially joined the team, it only makes sense to try and get to know everyone, right? Besides, Leone isn't exactly an open book to begin with.
Trish nods in reply, looking forlorn again. That expression reminds Leone of when they had first been instructed to bodyguard the teenage girl back in Capri; confused, scared, worried about what might happen to her after the loss of her mother, and about to meet her extremely powerful, estranged father. In that regard, she certainly fit perfectly into their little band of outcasts.
"How did you--" Trish starts, only to rethink her sentence before speaking up again a second later, "What was the most difficult part of living alone for you?"
Leone sighs and sits back a little, fixing his hunched-over posture for the sake of setting the nail file aside and shaking the purple nail polish container a few more times as he contemplates his answer.
"Well, I still believe that moving out was the best decision I could've made back then," Leone hums thoughtfully. "I didn't have a great relationship with my parents, and I'd been kicked out a couple times before I moved out anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. But I do recall struggling a lot with paying bills and keeping important papers in place. Always lost important notices and cards, or forgot to pay shit on time."
Apparently, his answer isn’t satisfactory, if Trish' deepening scowl and hunched shoulders are any indication. Her free hand is drawing shapes onto the wooden surface of the table with her eyes nearly staring a hole into the now unscrewed nail polish container. But Leone knows better than to push, and decides to let Trish organise her thinking before speaking up again.
Another silence falls over them while Leone starts dragging the little brush across long nails in a smooth motion. It's only halfway through that Leone hears something, although it's so quiet that he briefly wonders whether it's just his imagination and willingness to figure out what the hell is troubling Trish so much. But upon closer inspection, it was definitely Trish who uttered something.
"What's that?" he asks, brows pinched together while he unconsciously leans closer as if it would help him catch her uncharacteristically soft words.
A big mistake, it appears, because what comes out of Trish' mouth next is nothing short of a proper shout that has Leone reeling back into his seat.
"I don't know how to use the damn washing machine and I ruined half of my wardrobe, okay?!"
It's a good thing Leone had currently been in the process of re-dipping the nail polish brush into its little glass jar, or he would've spread a clean stripe right across the other's dainty hand.
The reaction that follows, however, is completely involuntary; a short laugh. It feels foreign in his chest, mostly from lack of use, but also because this isn't exactly an ideal moment for the rare bout of humour to rear its head. Trish' cheeks are already pink in embarrassment and, most possibly, anger. The last thing Leone wants to do is fuel those feelings when she deliberately came to him to talk about what had been bothering her.
But...
"Is that what got you down?" Leone snorts, earning him a kick under the table so sharp, it instantly wipes the leftover amusement from his face, accompanied by a hiss.
Yeah, he definitely deserved that one.
With the initial shock over with, and that same petulant pout back on Trish' face, she reaches for her cooling mug of tea with her free hand. Something to keep her busy while she gets over the slight humiliation of this whole conversation. Leone, in the meantime, is nursing the indubitable bruise on his shin with one hand before he speaks up again, this time managing a bit more empathy in his voice.
"Why didn't you just ask someone to help you?"
At this, Trish ducks her head, and her angry pout turns into something a bit more uncomfortable and pained. And damn it, Leone instantly feels bad for laughing, because it's obvious that this isn't about the fact that she'd ruined her beloved designer outfits. There's something deeper going on here, and he'd totally ridiculed her for being upset about it.
Leone hesitates, wondering if he should apologise. But a mere 'sorry' would only come out awkward and it probably won't make Trish feel much better anyway. So instead, he grabs onto her hand again, squeezing it gently before picking up the nail polish brush once more. Their eyes meet for a moment, a silent agreement that it was alright, which Leone took as permission to continue painting Trish' nails. The latter resorted to picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, opening and closing her mouth a few times until she finds the right words.
"After all that happened-- the amount of times I had to be saved and protected by everyone..." Brows furrow, a lip pinched between teeth in contemplation until she speaks up again, this time meeting Leone's watchful eyes with such force, Leone can practically feel her frustration from just looking at her when she says, "I don't want to be helpless anymore."
It seems like they have a lot more in common than Leone initially anticipated.
His focus drops back to the slender hand in his own, finishing up painting the last nail and returning the brush to its container for now. Giving advice isn't one of his strong suits. After all he's been through, the hardships he has faced and the long and tiring road of healing and dealing with depression, any sort of motivational speech coming from him would sound utterly hypocritical.
But... it then occurs to Leone that this might be one of the reasons why Trish sought him out specifically, other than the fact that he was Trish' direct neighbour. She's not looking for encouraging words or a pat on the head. Instead, it's the listening ear of someone who understands.
"Asking for help is the exact opposite of being helpless though, isn't it?" Leone pipes up after a brief pause, trying to sound as levelled as he can. It's something Bucciarati would have said to him, had he been in Trish' situation right now. That thought spurs a barely-there upward quirk of his lips.
Trish huffs and willingly offers her other, unpainted hand when Leone wordlessly points at it. Of course, a single piece of wisdom like that isn't going to miraculously rid her of these feelings that she's most likely had since they met, but at least it’s prompting her to actually talk about it as opposed to bottling it all up again until something minor sets her off the next time.
Leone takes her silence as a sign to continue, "Nobody here has the right to judge you for shit like that. Your life has been completely turned upside down, you can't expect yourself to adjust without any issue."
Leone is speaking from experience now, remembering his own struggles from when he was first picked off the street by Bucciarati. He'd been at such a low point in his life that he could only latch on and hope that this one person would be able to erase every problem he was dealing with. Of course, reality never turns out that way, and adapting to his new life as a gang member while dealing with depression came with a plethora of hardships he'd rather not revisit. But if there was anything he learned-- is learning from that experience, it's that there's no point in fighting it alone. Easier said than done, of course, but it's good to know there is always someone to help him through those particularly pesky moments.
"Y'know," he continues, now with Trish' full attention on him, "It took Narancia only a week or so to nearly burn down the entire kitchen because he didn't know you can't put a fork in the microwave." Leone's lips twitch upwards in amusement at the recollection. "Mista crashed at least three cars. Fugo got kicked out of Libeccio twice for flipping out on a customer."
The sound of a poorly concealed snort of laughter causes Leone to pause, his own smirk having widened by now.
"What about Bucciarati?" she asks with a curious twinkle in her eye.
"You're asking me to spread rumours about my Capo now?" Leone scoffs, before leaning in with an equally mischievous look on his face, lowering his voice as if Bucciarati himself was in this very room, "He has a tendency to sleep through his alarms and arrive late for morning briefings."
As Leone leans back into his chair once more, it's with the sound of Trish' hushed laughter. Comic relief is great and all, but Leone is more content to see the tell-tale signs of overall relief in the girl's demeanour.
He finishes painting Trish' second hand while the laughter dies down into an amused hum. And it's when Trish inspects the older man's handiwork, peeking through her fingers, when she adds, "You forgot one person."
"I have no clue what you're talking about," Leone is quick to respond while screwing the cap back onto the nail polish container. This earns him an eye roll from the teenager.
"For someone who used to work in the force, you really are a bad liar."
Dark brows shoot up at that comment, two-toned eyes blinking at the girl in dismay. "Sass me one more time and I'm clipping your nails short in your sleep."
This earns him another amused snort, followed suit by what could only be described as puppy eyes. Had Trish not been a crying mess on his doorstep only half an hour ago, Leone wouldn't have thought twice about ignoring such a pathetic attempt at manipulation.
Or so he tells himself.
"Fine," he grumbles while busying himself with putting all the nail polishes back into the zipper bag. "Bucciarati invited me to join him to a pretty important get-together for the organisation. Y'know, all the higher ups gathered together, expensive venue, fancy dinner, all the things I hate" Leone started off setting the scene, and he could already spot Trish' widening grin. "I ended up getting so incredibly smashed, I insulted Bucciarati's boss, broke a pricey vase, passed out on Bucciarati on the taxi ride home, and apparently, threw up on his shoes."
Definitely not one of Leone's prouder moments. That much is apparent from the heated flush on his face that he is quick to hide by promptly getting up from the table to put away the zipper bag and damp towel, all followed by Trish' close to hysterical laughter.
By the time he returns to sit across from Trish and sip his now cold coffee, Trish is wiping at some leftover wetness under her eye with her sleeve, this time from glee rather than misery. At least that's an improvement.
"So, ruining half your wardrobe doesn't sound so bad anymore, now does it?" Leone quips then, and Trish' expression softens into something less satirical, and more grateful.
She finishes her tea, holding the mug between her freshly painted hands for a moment before fully turning to face Leone. She's calmed down considerably since knocking at his door, and it only took a bruise on his shin, one ringing ear from being yelled in directly, and his tainted pride. Teenagers are hard work, that's for sure.
"Abbacchio," Trish utters then, smiling, "Thank you."
Yes, teenagers are hard work alright, but... well, Leone supposes it's not that bad to look after others every once in a while.
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles while setting his half-finished mug of coffee aside for the sake of getting up again. "Now show me your damn washing machine so I can teach you how not to destroy whatever clothes you've got left along with it."
"Alright," Trish agrees, getting to her feet as well, "But only if you'll let me teach you how to do a proper manicure."
Leone scoffs, meeting mischievous green eyes with his own amused gaze.
"Deal."