Chapter Text
Bucciarati does not enjoy this part of the job.
Instead, he silently sways with the train, tuning out mindless chatter and focusing on his own thoughts, trying not to focus on Polpo’s commands for the day. He thinks of Fugo arguing, Abbacchio laughing, and Mista failing to stay out of an argument between the two. The swaying stops, and he looks up. Bucciarati exits the train.
In this part of Naples, Bucciarati does not garner as many stares. Perhaps because there are less stand users in this area. It’s a bit freeing to not be recognized, so he makes a mental note to visit this part more often.
He approaches Luca’s final resting place, and spots two useless cops talking. They seem to recognize him immediately, so he pulls the sweetness out of a smile in order to properly greet them, “Good afternoon. As you can tell, my presence was requested.”
The one on the left states his name, and the one on the right follows. Bucciarati does not bother to learn their names. His gaze is fixed past them, contemplating the next steps and only holding onto whatever relevant details to note as he awaits the “Go ahead” he was expecting before advancing.
Luca’s eyes are closed with a shovel sized dent in his head. Bucciarati remarks on the irony silently before crouching down. He now understands why Polpo thought it was a stand user. The shovel lacks blood, but there is a clean imprint in the head. Bucciarati closes his eyes momentarily to remember what the cops were babbling about.
“Some kid. Giorno Giovanna? Yeah, that’s his name. He was talking to Giorno about encroaching in his territory.”
“Probably was gonna work with him. Giorno is a hustler.”
He opens his eyes again. He blinks, and then he searches Luca’s pockets.
For years Bucciarati had his suspicions about the nature of Luca’s dealings, but he was never able to properly confirm them due to Polpo’s love for Luca. His suspicions are finally confirmed when he feels several baggies in his pockets.
Bucciarati’s jaw tenses, and he pulls a scowl. He sighs, clearly annoyed and disgusted. He then searches the other pockets on the other side, and they appear to be empty. Bucciarati puts two and two together – Giorno Giovanna robbing Leaky eye Luca in order to hustle drugs to the streets of Napoli without having to report to Luca. A scuffle happens, and Giorno’s stand takes Luca out. Bucciarati releases a tense breath and shakily breathes in to try and mask his anger.
To avoid suspicion, he makes a show of pulling out a knife. Perhaps he will enjoy this a little.
After all, butchering a corpse is much more delightful when it belongs to a drug dealer.
Bucciarati collects what he needs. He passes the cops, and he ignores the screams of horror. He begins to hunt down the next target.
However, things don’t go as anticipated.
Instead, he now stands being brought into a dream from a naïve kid who clearly has nowhere else to go if he is itching to be a gangstar so bad. Bucciarati sighs. He notices Giorno being drawn to looking at the ocean. The crashing of waves can just barely be heard. Bucciarati closes his eyes and he can feel the mist of the ocean of times past. He knows his father’s signs when he sees them. Bucciarati resigns himself to stand next to Giorno and take him into his team. He's learned his lesson with Narancia, after all. Some are too hard headed to listen to reason. However, that unfortunately requires a visit to Polpo and a call to his unruly teammates.
Giorno’s intense stare stays on Bucciarati as he makes the phone call to Polpo. Such a stare would shake many, but if a stare would put Bucciarati off then his team wouldn’t exist in the first place. If anything, it’s welcome sign that Giorno will fit in well. Bucciarati often shares the same kind of observant stare. As does Fugo and Abbacchio. The phone call with Polpo is shorter than expected. That’s good.
Giorno watches as Bucciarati takes a breath and steels himself to call the team. He (correctly) deduces that his presence may be an issue. He doesn’t necessarily care, but he wishes to impress Bucciarati with fitting in better than expected. It seems someone picks up – Abbacchio is the name Bucciarati says.
“I’ve made an executive decision. One that you will all have to deal with and trust my discretion—”
Bucciarati is cut off from completing his declaration. The voice sounds deep but pissed off. Multiple other voices start talking. Bucciarati rolls his eyes and shoos Giorno away to go sit on a bench across the street from the payphone. He watches Bucciarati as he is forced to argue with his team. The phone call completes with a declaration of “I am the leader and you will trust my instincts!” that can be heard from where Giorno sits. Bucciarati hangs up the phone, straightens up his suit and sleeves, and he pulls on a gentle smile as he walks over to where Giorno sits. Giorno assumes the smile is fake due to the heated conversation.
“Didn’t take it well?” Giorno carefully says, hiding his annoyance.
Bucciarati chuckles and Giorno wonders if he caught onto his annoyance anyway. He’s hard to read sometimes. Bucciarati waves a dismissive hand, “Don’t mind the brats. They’re dramatic but they always come around.”
“To you. They come around to you” Giorno points out. It is at that point Giorno realizes that Bucciarati’s smile is genuine when it sweetens. It’s unusual to him.
“And my decisions. Let’s go to Polpo and then your dorm, okay?” Bucciarati tilts his head to the right and pats Giorno’s shoulder. Giorno goes with him to Polpo, “You’re the one talking to him, though. I’ve had my fill of Polpo’s shit for today.”
After the odd conversation with Polpo, Giorno exits with lighter in hand. Bucciarati’s gentle smile greets him outside of the jail.
“An exercise in trust has commenced, I see,” Giorno nods in response.
“I see why you wanted to avoid him,” in response, Bucciarati’s smiles shifts with a hint of a grimace in it. Gentleness is replaced with memories he would like to forget.
Bucciarati’s smile then becomes disingenuous. Giorno is able to identify it now, “Lead the way to your dorm, please. I would like to help with packing. I have a knack for it, if you haven’t noticed.”
Giorno shields the lighter from the wind, “Is it okay if I ask questions?”
Bucciarati nods instantly, “I’m more open than most, but I’m not afraid of a boundary either. Go on.”
“Do tell me about the members of your – er – our?”
Bucciarati’s smile becomes genuine again, “our” he confirms.
“Our team. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“A good quality,” Bucciarati squints in contemplation, wondering where to begin.
“What about starting with Abbacchio? He was on the phone, yes?”
Bucciarati huffs a humorous breath, “Technically I was on speaker. But yes, Abbacchio answered,” he pauses, and his expression shifts into an unfamiliar one. It’s not exactly a smile, but it’s not sad or neutral. It's... happy? Somehow it's happy. There is a passion in his eyes. An unfamiliar passion that Giorno has never encountered. It’s difficult to decipher. This is an expression that Giorno cannot read. He notes it, though, to see if that expression is associated with Abbacchio, “Leone Abbacchio is the oldest and our most recent member. Two years now? All of the team are stand users, of course. In fact, stand users and even potential stand users find themselves drawn together, so it was not difficult to curate a team of stand users for me,” Giorno tilts his head in curiosity and notes down that fact, “Abbacchio did not fit in well. At all. He was a dirty cop, so that was a hard sell. Even Mista was nervous about it. However, Abbacchio has proven himself to everyone, so it’s not an issue anymore. I can’t see us without him involved now.”
Giorno nods, and then he squints, “That name is familiar.”
Bucciarati chuckles, “Oh yes, his story was all over the news. That’s why you recognize it. You may recognize Guido Mista as well,” Giorno squints again. In honesty, Giorno recognized both names and placed them immediately when he heard them, but he wanted to see if Bucciarati deduced that, “I don’t need to explain their cases then. It’s nice to see you’re well read,” Bucciarati hums while Giorno looks at him with a puzzled expression.
“What did I give away?”
Bucciarati smiles with a hint of mischievousness, “You have expressive eyebrows. They raised for a moment when I said both of their names. So, obviously, you know them. There are very few around here who don’t. Good test, though,” Bucciarati chuckles again.
Giorno actually feels himself relax. It’s unusual. It’s disarming. It’s alarming. He guards back up, “Any other celebrities on the team?”
“A lesser-known case since he is a minor – Pannacotta Fugo,” Giorno’s unintentional signal happens again, and his eyebrows raise for but a moment as news of Fugo’s parent’s deaths and the attempted murder of his professor are revealed in memory. Bucciarati nods, “Very well read, it seems. Not surprising.”
Giorno nods once, “Tell me about the others, please.”
Bucciarati tilts his head back and forth for a couple of moments, “Since I started with the most recent addition I’ll go backwards. Before Abbacchio is Narancia Ghirga,” the name is unfamiliar, so Giorno’s eyebrows stay stationary, “Most underestimate him, but do not make that mistake. He is a vital part of the team for a reason. Very clever. Ball of energy. You two would get along well. He also brings up the morale,” Giorno thinks the last statement is an interesting one. Perhaps because he revealed his dream that Bucciarati can be so frank with him. Or is Bucciarati always like this? Giorno isn’t sure.
“Before Narancia is Guido Mista. Very smart as well, very respectful. You two will get along very well. Mista can be a bit neurotic especially under stress. A calming force is needed usually. I usually accompany him, but you can split that with me. Sometimes Abbacchio can be that grounding force for Mista. Under the right circumstances. And mood. Abbacchio needs to be in the right headspace or he’ll get temperamental.”
Bucciarati huffs out an odd laugh, “Speaking of temperamental, Pannacotta Fugo is my first member. Do not take his outbursts seriously. They have improved over the last three years, and he doesn’t mean the words he says,” Bucciarati sighs, and Giorno cannot help the furrowing eyebrows of concern, “He’s just a fighter that needs focus. Usually, he breaks down crying and does improve after a bad tantrum. He also hasn’t scarred me in two years, so that’s an improvement,” Bucciarati shrugs, “Your ears will adjust to the noise,” Bucciaratai huffs upon seeing Giorno’s concerned face, “Fugo also requires a calming force. Clearly. Abbacchio, strangely enough, tends to help Fugo a lot. Abbacchio is not so temperamental around Fugo. One can even mistake him for patient. But he can get frustrated with Mista. Fugo can also be frustrated with Mista’s… tendencies… But if I have Narancia, Mista, and Abbacchio together then Abbacchio is never so mouthy towards Mista because of Narancia’s morale boost,” Bucciarati sighs a dramatically exasperated sigh, “Did I say that I was glad you are joining our team? Know that if I neglected to mention it. I was hoping for another… calmer member…”
Giorno nods with a small smile. The flame flickers, he externally freaks out, and Bucciarati laughs at him. Giorno huffs.
They get back to the dorm. Giorno has the genius idea to keep a fort around the lighter. Bucciarati urges him to keep it lit, but he does not help him. He states that he is “absolutely unable” to help him and if he were to help him that would have “dire” consequences. Giorno isn’t sure if Bucciarati is being dramatic or legitimately has his hands tied.
Bucciarati goes to the restroom after helping to zip up larger objects into Giorno’s suitcase. He insists that Giorno just needs one suitcase, and he’s actually right. However, while Bucciarati is gone, Giorno is distracted by a custodian in the window, and when Bucciarati returns to an empty room he feels the icy familiarity of Black Sabbath in action.
Bucciarati sighs and races towards the window.