Guilty Conscience ~ Abbacchio/Fem Reader

Chapter 10: A Sweet Stench of Death

WARNING:
The following chapter of Guilty Conscience contains graphic depictions of injury and blood.

Blood pooled at their feet, staining their hands and clothes. Cuts and bruises mapped out the plains of Abbacchio's skin, carving deep lines of red and dark pools of purple into his bare chest. It didn't take long for the mafioso to finally stand to lean back, resting his behind against the sink. His feet stayed planted on the floor. His breathing was still laboured, and Y/N's hands remained tucked tightly against his back. Her warm cheek brushed against the bareness of his cold skin. And no matter how many times she thought she could finally let go of him, she felt Abbacchio teetering forwards, on the verge of collapsing.

"Let go," was all Abbacchio could manage. His hands were braced along the sink's edge, and his head rolled along the mirror behind him. His chest lifted in uneven breaths, meeting the warmth of Y/N's face as she stayed tightly wrapped around him.

"I can feel you about to fall over. You're not strong enough to hold yourself up."

"I am. Get off," Abbachio spat.

Y/N rolled her eyes and loosened her grip on the mafioso's back. He had spread his legs just enough for her to stand between them. Her warm face had rested on his cool skin while he gathered the strength to sit on his own. Y/N's hands clasped tightly around Abbacchio's broad back, but now that she had finally let go, he began to fall forwards.

His frame moved slowly, his feet slipping from beneath him. Y/N moved back to observe. She watched him grab at the walls, and the sink, and he even began to reach toward her. He looked pathetic. And in any other situation, she would've laughed. But when a thick stream of blood dripped down from his nose and coated his lips in a red as dark as wine, Y/N stepped forwards again and pushed Abbacchio back onto the sink.

"You're awful at listening," Y/N spoke against his skin.

"You're awful at first aid. Fugo and Bucciarati would've had me patched up by now."

"You're such a brute! I don't even know why I bothered to come to help you. I'm doing my best to save your life and the only thanks I get is your sour attitude."

Y/N didn't give Abbacchio the chance to respond when she planted a single hand on his collar, bracing his body, and crouched down to pick up the jug of orange juice she had tossed aside. She stood quickly and twisted the cap open. "Drink. And don't talk," she said, pressing the open jug to his bloodied lips. "the last thing I need is to hear you mocking me."

Abbacchio stared at Y/N only for a moment before he drank deeply from the plastic container. She was glad that he was finally listening to her. She liked him most when he didn't speak.

The box, a plain cream-coloured container, sat on the sink beside Abbacchio. When Y/N quickly reached over and pressed her shaking fingers into the locking slot, it popped open with a click, exposing a variety of cloth and bandages tucked neatly into separate compartments. From the dried blood that coated the inside of the kit's lid, Y/N could tell that it hadn't been its first time being used.

Her fingers danced within the box, along the thick plastic packages of stitching needles, and over the bound rolls of bandages. Her hands trembled. Her only education on first aid was from Abbacchio's lectures. She had yet to practice it in real life. Or on a real person in need of real medical attention. Abbacchio looked as if he's been stabbed and shot at. He looked like he'd be brutally beaten. And the idea that there was someone out there who could best the brute in any form of combat sent a cool shiver across Y/N's skin. She wanted to know what happened to him - out of curiosity, not care.