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"We really shouldn't make it our life's mission to break Luca's other eye."
Abbacchio rolled her eyes as Buccellati dabbed at her face, trying her best to clean up the cuts from Abbacchio's most recent scrap. Buccellati knew it didn't reflect well on her that Abbacchio wouldn't stop getting into fights, but she was more concerned about Abbacchio getting into one that she couldn't win. She was lucky this time around that Luca's team had fewer Stand users than normal and that about a third of them were consistently high off their own product; but that wasn't the case for every team in Passione.
However, Abbacchio didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Not when she had responses like, "Well, if he didn't want to get hit, then maybe he shouldn't have talked shit."
Buccellati sighed and stood from the table. Abbacchio stewed in the silence as she wrapped gauze around a particularly deep scrape on her arm. It wasn't long before Buccellati returned with a ice pack for the goose egg on Abbacchio's head.
"So," Buccellati said as she started cleaning up Abbacchio's other arm, "what were they saying about me this time?"
Because the root cause of the problem was never Abbacchio. She didn't give a shit about what people said about her. Her skin was ridiculously thick after everything that she went through. She could let insults about her roll off her back like water on a duck. Or she'd drop kick them and be done with it. It depended on what kind of day she was having.
But oh, if someone insulted Buccellati? Holy shit.
Abbacchio glared at her wounds like they'd be able to get her out of the conversation. Unfortunately, they were powerless to protect her from Buccellati's disappointed stare. She couldn't meet Buccellati's eyes as she grumbled, "He called you a slut."
Buccellati blinked, waiting for the rest of the list. When nothing came after, she asked, "That's it?" Abbacchio grimaced but added nothing. "Abbacchio! That's nothing! You think that's the worst I've heard as a woman in the mafia?"
"I know that! But that doesn't mean that he can say shit like that!"
"Abbacchio," Buccellati sighed, "I appreciate that you're willing to defend me. But you need to pick your battles. I can't have one of my soldate trying to punch out other Passione members. It's not a good look."
Abbacchio rolled her eyes. "You didn't hear how they were saying it."
"I don't care how they put it! You can't pick fights for a stupid reason like 'my honor.' I promise, what they think of me doesn't matter."
Abbacchio slammed her fist into the table, rattling the first aid equipment. "They were calling you 'Passione's bicycle," Buccellati! They were just going on and on about how you were spreading your legs for anyone in Passione!"
Buccellati scoffed. "They wished I'd sleep with anyone in Passione."
"Oh trust me, they do. Another thing that I heard them go on and on about." Abbacchio's face twisted in disgust as she recalled their words. "They said things like 'wanting to fill you up' and 'you think the whore would let us take turns.' Among other things."
Buccellati felt her gut churn at the phrasing—who wouldn't feel sick hearing that—but schooled her face into something calm. "That is awful, and I'd want to punch them too, though none of those assholes are brave enough to say that stuff then I'm in earshot." Non–Stand users like them weren't worth much in a fight against Sticky Fingers. "But Abbacchio, I don't want you picking fights like this. Can you get it through your thick skull that I'm worried that you'll pick a fight that you won't walk away from?"
Abbacchio set her jaw in irritation but let Buccellati treat her without more complaint. They stayed silent for a good amount of time, both stewing in their opinion that she was the correct one here. Buccellati tried to keep her thoughts focused on patching Abbacchio up and noting which bruises would probably need ice when she was done. However, an intrusive concern flashed through her head and wouldn't leave. Rather than let that pick at her, Buccellati decided to bite the bullet.
"And what about you? What do you think?"
Abbacchio didn't open her eyes as she leaned her head back to ice it. "Think about what?"
"Do you think I'm a slut?"
Abbacchio cracked one eye open and stared at Buccellati. "I think your sex life is none of my damn business."
"Yes, but I want to hear your opinion."
"Why?"
"I want to know what someone whose opinion actually matters thinks of me."
Abbacchio paused long enough that Buccellati thought she might ignore the question altogether. After shutting her eyes again, she said, "I think it's your business if you want to sleep around, and I know sometimes you don't want to sleep around, and that part pisses me off. But I would be lying if I said I didn't get concerned."
"About anything specific?" She imagined it went beyond the basic physical concerns that went hand in hand with promiscuity. Infections were an active risk she took with her lifestyle. There really wasn't much that she could do about that apart from the usual mundane caution. Pregnancy was off the table altogether after Buccellati made the difficult decision to remove that possibility with the help of Sticky Fingers years ago. Though she doubted that was something Abbacchio knew about. It wasn't something she liked talking about if she could help it.
"Well," Abbacchio said, exchanging the hands holding the ice pack, "obviously the shit Polpo makes you do for information fucking sucks."
"I can't argue there. But there's not much I can do if Polpo orders it."
"I know. Doesn't mean I like it."
Buccellati couldn't blame her, but there's was only so far she could push Polpo if she wanted to keep her team. It was already hard enough getting her own team. Although Passione was much more accepting of people from all walks of life than the average mafia due to the power of Stands, they were still beholden to the expectations of other, more mundane families. As a woman, there wasn't any hope of reaching something like capo, not unless she wanted to kill her identity as Bruna Buccellati and adopt a different, male identity for the rest of her days. (It wasn't out of the question, but it wasn't a choice she took lightly.) If she wanted to keep her team, she couldn't push against Polpo's orders.
"Then there's the situation with your…" Abbacchio trailed off, not knowing how to continue. "I don't know what they're called. Friends with benefits? Fuck buddies?"
Ah. Them.
"Look, I don't know what your deal is with them and honestly, I don't want to." Abbacchio sounded like she was desperately trying not to speak through gritted teeth. "But whatever's going on is going to fuck you up, one way or another."
"Abbacchio, I have an agreement with La Squadra. You don't need to worry."
"Bullshit, I don't have to worry! Their one and only job is homicide! And you don't think I should be a little nervous about your safety? The sex can't be that good, Buccellati!"
Buccellati couldn't fight the flush on her cheeks no matter how hard she tried. That earned her a disappointed stare from Abbacchio, but she felt like she couldn't blame her reaction. Not with a reel of escapades from her deal flashing through her mind.
The nights Risotto bent Buccellati in half and used equipment on her that felt like she was getting torn in half. The back-shredding, angry sex with Prosciutto after they riled each other up. The calm, vanilla sex where she's had to bolster Pesci's confidence. The times she's spent with ladies who redefined temperature and mirror play. The odd, borderline experimental toys that she's allowed Melone to use on her. The handful of times she's been able to engage her exhibitionist side with the help of Formaggio's Stand to sneak away in broad daylight. Hell, she'd even been invited for the occasional threesome with the team's fairly monogamous couple.
But every single one of those encounters, as diverse as they were, had one thing in common: it was all transactional. The team was in the same boat that Buccellati was in, hitting a criminal glass ceiling hard enough that it might as well have been steel. Passione was constantly undercutting, stiffing, and underutilizing the team, meaning that more often than not, they were strapped for cash. As much as Buccellati hated her reputation as Polpo's glorified secretary, it did pay quite well. Even after paying her teammates, setting aside money for team use, and paying for incidentals, Buccellati had more money than she really knew what to do with. So Buccellati struck a mutually beneficial deal: the ladies get money and they all get to work out the stress of their work.
"Abbacchio, they aren't going to kill their cash cow, even if a hit was put on me."
Abbacchio blew a chunk of hair out of the way. "And what about your emotions? What if you get attached? Or what if one of them gets too attached to you?"
Buccellati's face steeled. "Then I'd cut them out." And with perhaps a bit too much eye contact than was necessary, she added, "I don't sleep with people I'm afraid to lose, Abbacchio. And I'm not in a position to ask more than a bit of stress relief from anyone. Okay?"
Abbacchio tightened her jaw but said nothing. Buccellati felt a small pang of guilt at that. She wasn't stupid. She knew that there was something going on from Abbacchio's side. Something a bit more than simple loyalty toward her leader. Buccellati…well she was doing her best not to fan the flames. She wasn't certain what her opinion of Abbacchio's potential feelings were, and any contemplation of the matter would stay boxed up on the shelf. Certainly, if she left it be, Abbacchio would be able to move on to someone who'd be able to return her affections safely. She deserved that bit of normalcy after she everything she gave up to follow Buccellati. She deserved to offer her heart to someone who could meet her halfway.
With a sigh, Abbacchio said, "Fine. If you don't think it's important, I'll try to not get into fights about this."
"Thank you. That's all I wanted."
As Buccellati started to clean up the first aid kit, she glanced out the window. When had it gotten this late? Buccellati put the kit back in its spot in the bathroom to find Abbacchio slowly rising from the chair, sucking in air through her teeth from discomfort. Buccellati frowned. Abbacchio didn't drive here, if she remembered correctly. It was usually a toss-up whether she took public transport versus her car on any given day. She wasn't incredibly hurt, but Buccellati was plagued by visions of her being jumped at the bus stop while she wasn't at a hundred percent.
"It's getting late," Buccellati said. "Why don't you stay? I can get the guest room ready."
"Really? Are you sure?" she asked like a little argument meant that Buccellati wouldn't offer her kindness.
She smiled and winked at Abbacchio. "I'll have to reschedule my next orgy, but I'll make do."
"Excuse me?" Abbacchio's face went red, absolutely scandalized.
"It's a joke!" Buccellati laughed as she walked out of the room. "Come on, let's get you something to wear that doesn't have your blood on it."
Buccellati walked off to her room and started looking for some comfortable clothes that would fit Abbacchio. It might be hypocritical to say she didn't want to encourage Abbacchio's feelings and allow her to stay over, but Buccellati could explain herself. For one, her guest room was open for every member of her team. It would be silly to exclude one member and not the others. And it wasn't as though she ever teased Abbacchio. They stayed in completely separate rooms. The only time that wasn't the case was that time everyone crashed in her apartment after a very rough mission, when she let Fugo and Narancia take her room and the guest room to recuperate, leaving her and Abbacchio to pass out on her pull-out couch.
On top of all of that, it was nice having Abbacchio stay over. She couldn't put her finger on why, but Buccellati always seemed to wake up a little more relaxed. Maybe having someone else around made her sleep better? But that didn't seem to happen when the others stayed the night. Perhaps it came with sharing a space with someone more low-energy than the others (and despite Fugo's insistence otherwise, yes, her emotional regulation issues sometimes made for high-energy conversations). Well, whatever the reason, Buccellati didn't see the harm in letting her stay.
Who knows? Maybe Abbacchio is also more relaxed when she stays here, Buccellati thought as she pulled a large shirt and sweats from her dresser.
───※ ·✥· ※───
Sticky Fingers paced around Bruna's living room confident that her footsteps would go unheard by the sleeping women. She needed to do something to work out her energy, especially after that whole debacle. That whole argument really wasn't good for anyone. It clearly upset Abbacchio and Bruna alike. Bruna recalling her rendezvous since Abbacchio's last visit only reminded Sticky that only one of them were getting any satisfaction.
And reminding Abbacchio of Bruna's sexual encounters was only bound to upset one person in particular.
A light beep was the only warning Sticky got before a hand shot out and grabbed the zipper pull resting in her cleavage. Sticky stumbled as she was tugged forward and brought face-to-face with a very irate, very jealous Moody Blues. Sticky let Moody glare at her, punctuated by a low, irritated, flatlining beep—it was Bruna that did all of that! Why was Moody mad at her?—but when Sticky couldn't hold herself back anymore, she slowly leaned forward and pressed her lips to Moody's timer.
Once Sticky pulled back from the soft, lingering kiss, she tried to evaluate how Moody was truly feeling at that time, never an easy thing to figure out with a cute, sparse face like that. Moody stared at Sticky, less irritated and more perturbed at this point, before shaking her head and turning on her heel. Hand still firmly gripped around Sticky's zipper pull, he marched both of them to the wall and knocked his knuckles against it until Sticky got the message. Fortunately, Sticky was more than happy to follow their lead and unzipped an opening in the wall with a flourish. Moody looked over the opening, and with a nod of approval, she turned, jumped, and wrapped her long legs around Sticky's hips. Sticky smiled and buried her face into Moody's neck, digging her teeth into the soft, squishy flesh.
Sticky tightened her grip around Moody, and together, they fell into the zipper void, punctuating the act with a laughter-like chirp and the hiss of a zipper rapidly closing.