Chapter Text
For the people of Naples, Bruno Bucciarati is a dazzling symbol of hope and courage. That is a fact that you continue to observe and believe in, even now.
The streets ring with praises sung high for the young Mafioso himself, leading you to irately joke that the people might as well carve a life-sized marble statue and build him his own damn cathedral if they love putting him in a pedestal so much. Bruno would often wave away your jests with a low chuckle, explaining that the people are just grateful and that I should let them be. You always thought that he never understood your point, being that painting him as a naturally perfect being would be a disservice to him as a person.
When the two of you first moved into the city and out of your small fishing village, you were both young and equally terrified of the future. Due to a stupid drug deal and horrible luck, which you still continuously curse at even now, both of your lives’ direction has changed its course forever.
You could still hear the way his teeth grinded together when he confessed to you on that night, ten years ago, that he had killed two men while taking watch over his father in the hospital. The way his eyes shone with unshed tears when he told you that he’s leaving for the city to join the mafia, boldly exclaiming that this is it for the both of you and that you shouldn’t come with him (you punched him in the face that night to shut him up, eyes red from crying while you scream at him to wait while you pack your things). You could still remember the way his shaking hand gripped yours while you both stood in front of Polpo, receiving the badge that officially proclaimed you as a part of Passione.
“(Y/N) (L/N),” he calls on you, handing you a celebratory glass of wine to drink. You briefly let go of Bruno’s hand to reach towards it. “Pardon my curiosity, but how did you keep the flame alight for 24 hours?” You almost flinched; was he trying to catch you in your lie? Taking a sip of the bitter wine, you turned towards him confidently. “I merely followed your orders.”
Polpo’s booming laughed echoed all around the cold, dank prison walls. You saw Bruno’s finger twitch at your bold-faced lie because of course you didn’t. Like him, you had to relight the lighter. Like him, you were stabbed with the Arrow, forced to gamble with your life or throw it away completely. And like him, you were chosen.
When Bruno faced the Arrow, he was chosen for his far more noble conviction, you were sure of it. His burning desire to leave a change in the world. But you, a girl with no family and nothing to live for, in your presumed last moments as the sharp blade grazed your throat, your thoughts drifted to him.
He was the only family you have. The only one you have left. And perhaps it was the sudden rush of anger from the unfairness of everything or the overwhelming want to keep staying by his side, that the Arrow deemed you worthy of your new life.
You will never tell him any of that, of course. If he asked, you’ll tell him that your main motivation is to beat the shit out of evil people. But for now, you looked over to him while Polpo praised the two of you in the background.
The look in both of your eyes conveyed the same unspoken thought. There’s no more going back, is there?
The two of you were equally terrified of the circumstances, you knew that, but even then Bruno did not crumble.
While you initially fumbled, still trying to adjust; Bruno has been spending sunrise until sunset carrying out orders, and reaching out to those who needed his help.
While you still spend some nights trying to scrub yourself clean off of the blood that you spilt, their dying voices still whispering in your mind; Bruno had been bloodying himself further, deaf and blind to his own suffering, but heart burning with the resolve to scourge the streets clean of the filth that threatened the people he had now sworn to protect.
From then on, you have strengthened your resolve and sworn to stay by his side no matter what, jokingly appointing yourself as his right-hand woman slash bodyguard when he started to put together his own team. He scoffed at that, saying that he didn’t need you to protect him.
“I have a Stand now,” he said, cheeks faintly pink from your declaration. “so I can take care of myself. You should focus on using your Stand to protect yourself (Y/N).”
You didn’t care, there is not much he can do about it anyways. The first response that came to your mind was “Why the fuck did you name your Stand ‘Sticky Fingers’ again?”
The point was, Bruno Bucciarati is not the fearless, polished, perfect man everyone thought he was.
He still gets scared whenever the two of you (or any of your teammates) are under enemy crossfire; sappy, angsty television dramas still makes him tear up (although he always tries to hide it from everyone due to your incessant teasing); his childhood teddy bear is still stuffed inside his room somewhere (he denied it once when you approached him about it, but you know it’s there. Why else would he avoid your gaze while he sneaked back into his room with a button and brown thread in hand? You had it with you when we moved to the city Bruno, don’t lie to me now); he would get sick due to all the late nights of paperwork and briefings and you often had to wake up his senses with a cup of coffee; and sometimes in the dead silence of the night, you would see him perched on the windowsill, eyes sad and contemplating.
Another fact that you continue to believe in is that people forget that Bruno Bucciarati is human; imperfectly perfect and one who bleeds and triumphs over his adversities.
A rock is steady and strong, but it can still crumble from time and pressure.
Even now, as you limp along the city’s sidewalk, you could hear the voices of the people calling out to the man in front of you.
“Bucciarati! How are you doing today?”
“You’re so reliable Bucciarati, I knew we could always count on you!”
“Bucciarati what happened to the thing I asked you to look into?”
“I need your help Bucciarati!”
“Bucciarati I need to ask you something!”
“Bucciarati!”
“Bucciarati!”
You bit back an impatient sigh as Bruno stopped to address their concerns, he turned to shoot you an apologetic gaze in which you replied with a shrug and settled on leaning on a lamppost to wait for him to finish. The city is lively as always, shopkeepers selling their wares, children running and playing on the street, the sound of daily commute and of course, the cacophony of voices trying to get your leader’s precious attention.
But then again, who could blame them?
You thought to yourself, eyes trained on his back. He was talking to an elderly woman who was mumbling and crying about something you did not care enough to understand in the moment. But Bruno was leaning down towards her, all smiles and reassurance, exuding an aura of benevolence and kindness, promising to help her as much as he can.
No wonder the people thought he was god sent.
You snorted at the thought.
For the people of Naples, Bruno Bucciarati is a dazzling symbol of hope and courage
For you, he was still that snot-faced little brat who would knock on your door begging you to play tag or some other kind of silly game with him.
There aren’t a lot of kids close to his age back in the village, so naturally the both of you gravitated towards each other. You were faster and more agile than him so you would win time and time again, leading him to keep asking you to play with the hopes of wiping that cocky smirk off of your face. On the day that he did manage to beat you, you expected him to gloat, but instead he beamed and offered to treat you some ice cream as a way to celebrate his victory. Thus began your long-enduring friendship.
After your parents died due to an unfortunate accident when you were nine years old, you stayed inside your empty house and cried for days on end. Bruno would often come with a plate of food prepared by his father and stories that he hoped would help cheer you up. They treated you like family and even tried to get you to live with them, but you refused, wanting to remain in your childhood home.
Days like these makes you miss the days of your youth, the scent of salt and the gentle spray of the sea mist. When your conscience was still guilt-free and violence and murder wasn’t a part of your daily life. Grumbling, you lament the unforeseen circumstances that led you now to the path that the two of you lead. You have always been one to believe in fate, every experience, every moment you live was a result of another event that happened in your past. And you chose to blame this current mishap on those two, stupid, idiotic drug dealers from ten years ago that you wished was still alive only so you could tear them apart yourself.
In front of you, Bruno straightened up to turn towards your slouched form, finally dismissing the onlookers who came to greet him.
“(Y/N),” his eyes sparkled, lips quirked up in amusement “would you stop trailing behind?”
Ah yes, sometimes you forget that he can still be such a prick.
Your amber eyes sharpened into a glare, almost glowing gold from the light of the setting sun. “My leg was cut off Bruno.” Head tilting sharply to gesture at the trail of blood dripping from your wake. “and you’re making a stupid joke about it?”
Earlier, you had a little scuffle with some drug dealers who have been doing illegal transactions in Passione territory. Polpo requested that the two of you go personally, and it would have been an easy task too if only this infuriating man in front of you didn’t trip the enemy’s landmine.
The both of you only found out that one of the men was a Stand user the moment you got there, with the ability to plant invisible landmines virtually anywhere. Bruno, normally so careful and calculating, accidentally tripped one in his haste; and although your own Stand Slowdive could slow down time, you were so far away from him that by the time you pushed him out of the way, the resulting explosion still managed to blow your leg clean off.
A small smile graced his lips as he held his hand out to assist your limping form. His hand was gentle yet firm, his other arm finding itself around your waist to steady you. “I apologize. But I reattached it, didn’t I?”
Rolling your eyes, your gaze drifted to your leg, a long band of zipper holding it together. To those without a Stand, the only thing they could see was a thin, jagged cut right below your knee which separates into two lines down to your ankle. “Yes,” you hissed, still obviously angry. “that does not mean that it doesn’t hurt.” Sharp jolts of pain travel across your body every time you move your left leg, prompting you to use Bruno as a crutch while hopping around with your right.
Piecing your leg together wasn’t a smooth ride at all; with the aftermath of the explosion separating your detached leg into two smaller parts. You can still vividly picture the bizarre horror show that is a sweating, panicked Bucciarati going around with your limbs in hand, piecing and fitting the parts back together like some kind of bloody puzzle.
Even though your Stand can slow down time up until ten times its usual speed, that doesn’t always mean you could leave every fight unscathed.
By the time you got back to the hideout, you noticed from the corner of your eyes that his lip was twitching. Holding a laugh back, no doubt. Already annoyed by this day’s turn-out, you let him be. You probably did look silly anyway, a murderous gangster hopping around like a damn bunny, your knives jingling from within your skirt like a bell.
But what spilled out of his lips wasn’t the laugh you were expecting, but an almost whisper of an apology. He gently led you to the worn-out couch, and although you didn’t really need his help to walk anymore at this point, you let him anyways. His touch on your waist lingered gently, before he completely pulled away. “Scusa, (Y/N).” Gone was the teasing tone in his voice replaced by something gentler, and you have an inkling that he wasn’t apologizing for the inconvenience you had to endure on the way back.
His gaze flitted to your leg briefly, before finding its way back to your face. The two of you never needed much words to understand each other and he didn’t need to say the rest for you to know what he meant.
‘I’m sorry for being too reckless. I’m sorry that you’re hurt because of me. I’m sorry for putting you in danger.’
Your annoyance finally quells down, seeing the guilt reflected in his eyes. Did he think that you were angry with him? “I’m not upset with you.” Never with you. It was directed at the situation, at the fact that he could have gotten badly hurt if you didn’t make it in time. At the stupid victorious grin in that druggie idiot’s face when he thought he got the both of you. Ah, it makes her so angry that she wanted to rewind time just to beat the crap out of him again. But most importantly, you were angry that even after all the both of you did and stood up for, drugs still made its way into the streets. Your streets. The Boss didn’t make the both of you get rid of those drug dealers’ operation because he cares about his people, no, it was merely to get rid of competition. You don’t even have to tell Bruno this for you to know that he knows, the anger and betrayal in his eyes did the talking for him earlier when he too realized what the both of you were there for.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? The both of you swore to destroy the drug trade in Naples and yet here you are, working under the very same mafia who distributes most of them.
With a tired sigh, you reached out to cup his cheek. It was an act of comfort for the both of you, ever since you were both children. “It’s alright, Bruno. I’m here. I wasn’t even that hurt.”
He smiled at that, hands reaching towards your fingers cupping his cheek. Before he could form a response, the both of you were interrupted by a loud crash upstairs, followed by a chorus of angry screaming. The two of you flinched away from each other in surprise just as Mista thundered down the stairs, eyes sweeping the area for someone to complain to. Unluckily for you, his gaze landed on yours.
“Oi oi! Fugo lost it again (Y/N), make them shut up.” He grumbled, hands on his hips while waving a thick, leather book in the air. You recognized it as one of Fugo’s collections, the one you gave him as a present last summer. “How can I concentrate on this book when those two idiots keep screaming at each other?”
Your eyebrow raised at that. You didn’t know which surprised you more, the fact that the gunslinger spent his free time reading or the fact that Narancia pushed past Mista and fell down the stairs halfway, screaming apologies directed at the berserk blonde coming towards him with a sharp knife in hand.
“Do you think I’m retarded huh Narancia?!” Fugo roared furiously, pulling back his arm and throwing the knife in the former’s direction. The sharp blade zinged in the air, embedding itself on the walls inches from Narancia’s head. “Next time, I won’t miss!”
You decided that the stranger part of this day is the fact that Guido Mista is reading classical literature.
Ever since Narancia had asked Fugo to tutor him, this had been happening more and more out of late; with the younger boy often trying to skip his lessons or cheat his way through his homework, leaving the older blonde in a fit of rage. Whenever you’re not busy with missions or working through paperwork with Bruno, Narancia would often come to you to ask for help with his studies, which you gladly oblige. Once, Narancia exclaimed to Fugo that he actually preferred you as a tutor due to your generous reward system. You could still hear Pannacotta’s screams of “You fucking ingrate!” and the thump of Narancia’s head hitting the table multiple times. Insulted, he retaliated with Aerosmith, which Fugo dodged by hiding behind the couch. Thus, the worn-out bullet ridden couch you are now perched on top of.
God, I need to buy a new couch. You filed that thought away for now. It had been a long day, and you no longer have the energy required to facilitate their petty squabbles. You were just about to stand up and escape to the comfort of your room when Narancia suddenly turned towards you, eyes shining with hope of salvation.
“Narancia! Come closer so I can beat the shit out of you.” Fugo fumed at the bottom of the stairs, reaching towards the younger teen, the urge to smash his head against something probably taking over his mind yet again. But Narancia darted away, jumping into your lap to use you as a buffer between him and the temperamental man thundering towards the both of you. Of course, in the process, his feet managed to slam into your injured leg.
“Goddammit Narancia!” You yelled, moving your leg away from the squirming teen on your lap. You could hear Bruno reprimanding him in the background, explaining that you’re injured and that you shouldn’t be bothered. Narancia, of course, didn’t care.
“(Y/N)!” He whined. “Fugo’s being mean again!”
You closed your eyes, your lips snapped shut in a straight line. A moment’s peace, that is all you ask for.
After Bruno formed the team almost two years ago, you have never been happier. You felt as if you have finally found the family you have always been yearning for. All four of them were lost, wayward souls when you and Bruno first found them; and you both took it upon yourselves to make sure that they have something to live for, to make sure that they grow. God knows you love all of them, even all of Mista’s Sex Pistols hold a special place in your heart; but you realize now that peace and quiet will now forever be a rarity in your life. There is always something to be taken care of, furniture to be replaced from petty brawls, messes to clean up, injuries to take care of, meals to be cooked and chores to be done. Bruno and you always have to make sure that the number four is nowhere near Mista, Fugo’s temper should always be monitored and calmed down if needed, Narancia needs constant guidance and affection, and Abbacchio- well, Abbacchio is a whole different problem entirely that you are determined to understand.
Without even realizing it, you and Bruno had found yourselves in an almost parental role; always guiding and pushing the others, and cleaning up the messes they leave in their wake. Normally you won’t mind, but once or twice your fuse has run so short that you went berserk on all of them in a way that put Fugo’s infamous episodes to shame.
“How many times do I have to explain to you how the multiplication works huh?! Is your monkey brain really incapable of understanding?!” Pannacotta’s rambling snapped you back into reality. With a sharp exhale, you store away the stress and annoyance you accumulated this day as emotional fuel for your next fight- whenever that may be.
“Fugo, enough.” You calmly told him, embracing Narancia protectively. “We can’t have the two of you messing up the hideout again. Breathe. Come on. Inhale, exhale.” Fugo paused at that, face still contorted in annoyance; but he has now calmed down enough to follow your instructions.
Narancia, however, was not having it. Switchblade in hand, he tried to break free from your arms; but your grip was strong and firm, holding him in place while he thrashed around on your lap.
“Are you saying that I’m stupid huh?!” He kicked your injured leg and leapt up to his feet. You bit back a scream, cursing him eternally in your mind. That little brat!
Mista’s eyes darted between the two in amusement, obviously enjoying the display in front of him. You immediately decided that you won’t be receiving any help from him.
Bucciarati on the other hand, had enough of the two. With an angry frown marring his usually gentle features, he separated the two of them. “Enough you idiots! Or I swear I’ll-”
“Shut up, all of you!” Abbacchio entered the room, a perpetual scowl ever present on his face. Everyone turned to face the ex-cop who was immediately rounding towards the kitchen, not even sparing the rest of you a glance. The ends of his hair was slightly unkempt, and you noticed that his clothes have been rumpled by sleep. He just woke up. You almost laughed at the thought knowing that as far as Abbacchio goes, one of the things he hates the most is when someone disturbs his sleep since he gets little enough as it is.
“The lot of you are the reason why I’m still drinking.” He muttered, gone as quickly as he came. You wondered if he was there to get a glass of wine again. Hopefully not. Bruno have always been trying to get him to stop drinking so much, to no avail.
You chuckled at his response, wondering if you should follow him to see what he’s up to, the sound of Narancia and Fugo apologizing to each other immediately fading into the background.
Behind you, Bucciarati pretends that he didn’t get bothered by the way your gaze lingered on Abbacchio’s form.