Silent Soldier| Children! La Squadra x fem!reader

тринадцать | Friendly, My Enemy

The children didn't much question at first why there was screaming in the other room, and it wasn't obvious if that was because they were used to it, or if they were too absorbed by the peculiarity of the planes humming by.

Peeking his head around the corner, Risotto managed to get a good grasp of the situation. (Y/n) was gripping a certain medic by his scruff, dragging him out of some closet with a dangerous calm he'd never want to experience first hand. It seems like she wasn't too pleased with his disappearing act those days ago.

Prosciutto was quick to follow his lead, squeezing his head just beneath him to see what all the yelling was about. One after another, the rest of the kids followed, save for Melone and the little boy in the corner, who was discovered to be curiously named Giorno.

Bruno and his companion were rightfully confused, watching idly as Polnareff was forcibly hunkered to the ground with the shove of a heavy boot. Ghiaccio nearly winced when (Y/n) snapped to face him, the intimidation he felt alone just from her beckoning finger forcing him to tumble forward against his will, a puppet on strings.

In a violent thrust, she threw her arm down to point at the good-for-naught doctor, and then where the rest of the kids were. His interpretation of what she was trying to get across was indistinct, and yet, he managed to grasp something through her undefined gestures.

"Hey, mister," The typical cold threat in his voice wavered, and shrunk to a much more pathetic, meek version of itself. "Can you help my friend?"

There was an unintelligible breath that escaped the man-- something more akin to a wheeze-- that seemed to break Ghiaccio out of his odd mood. It was clear whatever he said was taken as a no. "Huh? What'd you just say, shit head? You better hope you'd just said you could help him, or else we're gonna have a problem."

The subtle, but steadily growing pressure on his skull was encouragement enough to get Polnareff in an agreeable mood, a smile as faux as any clowns gracing his face in a pleading, pitiful manner. He begged in slurred mumbles, promising to do whatever it was that the soldier above him wished, as long as he didn't get hurt-- the perfect compromise for a man built off cowardice.

It didn't take long for him to be practically kicked over to Melone, his whispered insults choked to dust from his lips when he picked up on the impatient drumming of (Y/n)s fingers against her rifle.

Prosciutto was sure to mock him through his work, calling him a 'Prissy little bitch' for running off and getting so scared easily, all while knowing damn well he would've pissed his pants all the same if he were faced by someone like (Y/n). But he wasn't, so his torture continued.

Risotto wasn't too different, taking extra care to ensure that Polnareff knew that he was a helpless little bunny, at the mercy of the big, bad wolf behind him. "Make sure he gets better," He'd say plainly. "It'd be real sad if we had to put a bullet through your leg, and give you a real reason to whimper like a little bitch."

Maybe it was with the help of those two devils that got Melone his treatment faster, or maybe it was the muzzle of a gun pressing into his back-- either way, the boy got his treatment, and (Y/n) seemed satisfied enough to sling her rifle back around her shoulder.

"All he needs is rest," The medic stammered, quickly retreating back to his little space in the wall. "If he has a reaction, let me know."

Formaggio flipped him off in response before crowding by Melones side, poor Giorno picked up and tossed to some other lonely corner as the group of children hounded around the lavender youth.

"Are you ok now?" Ghiaccio pressed. "Are you still in pain?"

"Yeah, your face doesn't seem so... dead, but you look weird." Formaggio said, getting a swift smack to the back of the head by Illuso