Work Text:
Leone Abbacchio had been blessed with an exceptional memory. As a child, it had impressed and delighted his instructors, and when he became a young man, he was determined to use it as a tool in the pursuit of his goals. But things had changed, since then, and for the past several years, he had wracked up long hours of time that he could never recall, no matter how much he wished to. And with that, he was content. Sure, for the first few months, he would find himself agonizing over lost conversations and the reoccurring, unfamiliar bruise. He would look, viciously, over his shoulder at his usual haunts, convinced he heard patrons whispering his name in derisive voices.
But eventually, it became a game. A novelty. He embraced the chaos he had invited and told himself it was the lightest punishment he could have earned for his crimes. When he had awakened one morning with his face covered in dried blood and his nose irrevocably crooked, it had been a source of amusement. Perhaps he had lost a nasty fight. Perhaps he had missed his own front door. In choosing to squander the remainder of his life, Leone had earned the right to mock his own existence.
There were some who weren't even able to do that. If they thought of him, at all.
However, when Leone drifted back to consciousness one morning on an unfamiliar couch with his shoes off and his body burning, that old twinge of depthless horror had gripped him at once. Something was different. Something was wrong. His first clues were there, already, before he even opened his eyes. Someone had intervened on the previous night. A well-meaning someone. And there were very, very few of those with whom Leone currently associated himself. In fact, there was really only one.
He pried his eyes open, cautious so as not to take in too much, too fast. Above him, a fan wobbled to ward off the summer heat - the only sound in the room. Warm light danced on the ceiling. He was lying on a couch against a wall with wood paneling. It was worn. Keeping his body still, Leone glanced next toward the rest of the room. A table had been pulled up beside the couch. On its surface were an empty glass and a small note, folded at least four times. More immediately worrying, however, was the familiar jacket hanging up on a hook on the far wall by the door. Black, with a white pattern that looked to him like little stars in a clear, winter sky.
This was Bruno Bucciarati's home, and in that note, he would find out exactly how much misery he had tracked into it like mud from the road.
It was useless to ask his own heart what had compelled him to get Bruno Bucciarati involved. Worse, it was naive to think it had not been at his own initiation. Well. At least the gangster had been given his wake-up call early on, before any permanent damage could have been done. What else could be written in that note but a brief, formal reprimand? An angry one? Would Bucciarati really waste his energy on such a gesture when he had already wasted so much more than his fair share?
The mounting feeling of madness finally compelled Leone to bolt upright, embracing the wave of disorientation that accompanied the gesture. As he listened to his own ragged breath, he steeled his resolve. Fine, then. This was it. This was the moment when even he would discover the *actual* depths of his own selfishness, and be forced to reckon with it. Better not drag it out. While he was certainly alone now, that could change at any time, and his best option was to be on his way as soon as he could pull himself to his feet.
Leone swung his legs over the side of the couch. He reached clumsily for his shoes, damp hair falling across his face, and started to put them on. Maybe he should do Bucciarati the courtesy of reading his note. It was only fair that their parting was exactly as the other man intended. Yet, he hesitated. Ran his tongue over his lips. Was struck with an abominable idea.
Closing his eyes and gripping the edge of the couch with both hands, Leone barked, "Moody Blues."
The stand appeared, buzzing, gazing at its user.
Leone looked up to meet its eyes. He couldn't breathe. His instincts told him this was an unforgivable crime - an abuse of a great gift he had not earned, but he ignored them. He couldn't help himself. Wordlessly, he guided the being over to the small table. It crouched down, extended its arm, and transformed.
Bruno Bucciarati came to life in the dim, little room. No turning back, now.
Moody Blues hummed as it began to move in double, triple, quadruple time. Bruno stood up, left the room in reverse, and vanished for several moments. When he reappeared, his clothing was different. This older Bruno backed through the motions of turning off a light-switch, checking a door lock, and finally, approaching the couch on which Leone found himself frozen.
Slower, now.
Bruno picked up the glass from the table, and walked back to the sink where he had filled it with water. The glass returned to the cabinet. Bruno returned to the couch. His eyes, for the first time, turned to a spot near the head of the couch, clearly fixing the prior evening's Leone in their hard, clear glance. Leone craned his neck to take in his stand's expression, but deciphering its mood was impossible. He would have to keep going back if he wanted to understand. So, he waited until the inevitable happened. Suddenly, the image of Bruno began to speak.
Its voice was soft. It seemed to repeat the same phrase more than once as it communed with the vacant spot on the couch. Bruno's image knelt down, still speaking, and rested a hand mere inches from Leone's. He nearly flinched. The stand grew silent, listening. Then it spoke again in a louder voice, brows knitting. Bruno gestured to himself, to the empty room around him - or perhaps the entire world, before standing once more. Again, it turned to leave, but before it could retrace its steps, Leone called out.
"Pause."
Now was as good a stopping point as any. Leone ran a hand over his face and muttered into his palm, "Play."
Moody Blues spoke immediately. "- you and your goddamned pride. If not me, then another gangster looking for bodies he can throw at the front lines. If not him, some cell where you'll rot after picking the wrong fight. I'm tired of repeating myself. If you thought you couldn't do the job I asked you to do, you would have turned away from me on that first night."
No. I'm saying. You're going to regret this. You will. You'll regret it. When it happens. When. It happens. Make sure it’s the last time. Please. Please, Bucciarati, I - I can't.
"Am I an agent of the law? A judge - your judge? Look at me. I live in the same world you do."
Please.
"And I know the look of a man who has never killed before."
No, no! You don't understand -
"Look at me. When I was a kid, my father got into trouble with some gangsters. They wanted to kill him, just for observing their dealings. I intervened, because there was nobody else to keep him safe. I sold myself to the men with the real power, so I could stop looking over my shoulder long enough for my father to recover. Even then, I knew what it meant. I knew exactly what kind of life I was making for myself. Abbacchio. Should that life be cut short, by your standard?"
Bucciarati -
"You work with me, or you don't. That's all. But I keep my men alive."
"Pause," Leone barked, the taste of salt blooming on his tongue. Moody Blues reemerged from the form of Bucciarati, and vanished at its user's command. The room was silent once more. Leone was numb.
A wave of heavy exhaustion rolled its way up his body, so severe that his arms began to tremble under his own weight. If he didn't stand up now, he would need to be roused again whenever the current Bucciarati arrived, and that was unacceptable. It was time for him to leave. Leone shoved himself upright and marched unsteadily toward the door. The note lay on the table, untouched and unread.
Whatever it said, it was clear to him now what Bucciarati wanted. Fine. He could start with that.