Chapter Text
LEONE ABBACCHIO starts his day with whiskey in his coffee and ends his day with just the whiskey. Between that he’s dressed in uniform, as crisp as possible, and pretends that burying himself in his work helps with the crippling guilt. He pretends wine and water are synonymous and that four hours of sleep and a meal-and-a-half were all he needed. Living on his last thread was exhausting but it was what he deserved. He tells himself this every morning. Wash face, avoid his own sorry stare in the mirror, and remember that his stupidity and greed got a good man killed. Every morning.
Then he met Haze. Short white hair, dark eyes, an absolute sweetheart who greeted him at the door and rolled around beside him as he slept. Almost made life living, this cat. But Abbacchio, a grown man and shitty police officer, technically stole this cat. He’d seen the posters. Thousand euro reward for Haze’s return and when he found her, he kept the blessed thing for two weeks. He, in no way, deserved that reward. Haze was probably some eight-year-old’s first pet, loved to bits, and lost to the police. So it is with great pain that Abbacchio picks up the phone and it is with great selfishness that he hopes no one replies.
“Hello?” a man answers.
Abbacchio cringes. “Hi, I believe I found your cat.”
“When’s the earliest I can pick her up?” the owner asks with haste.
Right, he doesn’t have a cage. Abbacchio glances at his apartment. He could clean up a bit and say his goodbyes before they get here.
“Six.”
Haze is at the door and follows Abbacchio into the kitchen. He’d fed her before he left and she was on two legs begging for a second meal.
“You’re going home so I won’t give you a lot.”
He pouts and pets Haze as she snacks. He should’ve lied and said he found her run over or something. He groans and returns to the living room. Might as well clean; distract himself with something other than liquor and TV. Coat and button-up are off, he cracks open a window, picks up the bottles, cans, food containers, and clothes that litter his living room. He never realized how frequently he leaves clothes in his living room. How often he gets as naked as possible before passing out on the couch. Doesn’t he have an elderly neighbour? Shit. He returns to the kitchen. Haze’s owners are just picking up their cat. They won’t see much beyond the entryway. But it’s been a while since he’s cleaned up and he figures this is the best way he can get his mind off of losing his new friend. Maybe he’ll buy his own cat in the near future. One as amazing as Haze and he’ll give it equally stupid name.
He’s built up a bit of a sweat, stands in dusty trousers and a tank top, and it’s a quarter-to. The living room’s cleaner and the dishes are about halfway done. He’s starving, exhausted, trying not to be a big baby about this and there’s Haze laying on her back on his bed. Abbacchio changes and sits on his knees at the end of his bed, staring back at black eyes.
He takes out his phone, “One more picture…”
“What are the chances of them feeling sorry for me and letting me keep you?”
A sigh. “Maybe if I hadn’t cleaned up…”
He scratches Haze’s chin, “What if they’re assholes?”
That sound is unmistakeably a knock. Abbacchio picks up the cat and heads to his door. A blonde kid shoves his way through and grabs Haze before bothering to look up at Abbacchio. A gangly kid with a mess of black hair steps in carrying the cage and poking through is an actual adult with a black bob cut. His age, maybe. Gay, hopefully.
Take the cat. Give me your number.
Leone… Don’t.
“I am so sorry and thank you.”
“Just doing my job—it-it’s fine.”
“You heard ‘m!” calls the shorter kid, “Time for dinner!”
The man smiles, “Mr.…?”
“Abbacchio.”
“Ah, would you like to join us for dinner?”
The kid scowls, “What the fuck?”
The man casts a glare and extends a hand to Abbacchio, “Bucciarati. This is Narancia and Fugo.”
Abbacchio takes the hand, “I’ll just change and meet you downstairs.”
The guests file out, Narancia looking unimpressed and Fugo petting Haze as much as he can through the holes of her carrier. Abbacchio hurries to his room. He lost the cat but he’s gaining something. He hops into his nicest jeans, removes his makeup and applies anew, combs his hair and heads to the elevator. He exhales through slightly pursed lips. It’s been a while since he’s gone out with people. First time in… too long.
Narancia’s cheered up when they get in the car but seemed to have swapped moods with Fugo. All the kid wants is to play with his cat but, who knew, he actually needs to eat.
Narancia sits up, poking his head between the front seats, “How old are you?”
Abbacchio frowns, “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Twenty-one.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“When’s your birthday?”
“May.”
“March.”
Narancia tsks, “Aw, he’s older.”
“Only by a few months,” says Bucciarati.
“Is that important?”
Bucciarati shakes his head, “Only to him.”
Nothing special. Pizza, pasta, and a bit of wine. Bucciarati explains that he works administration at a fish-packing plant and the others are in school. No one’s related, they’re all roommates. Abbacchio remains listening for the most part. Not much to say beyond being a desk cop and that margherita is his favourite type of pizza. Nothing to say at all when a trio of punks enter the establishment. ‘Shitbag’ written all over their faces but nothing is to be done. They aren’t doing anything in the moment and Abbacchio’s not carrying anything but a badge. He shifts his head a slight, turns it entirely as the third man in the group appears familiar. Stringy blonde hair, slouchy, younger than whatever shit he’s on has done to him: Santo Cassata.
The punks are seated but Abbacchio continues to gaze into nothing. Caught in a memory but can no longer remember where it took place or recall what anyone said. He sees Santo’s face and Taddeo Mantovani on the floor. Santo and Mantovani; killer and corpse. Evaluations replaced his place in the investigation and by the time he was declared sound of mind, it had all slipped away.
A small, wild part of himself says he should stab Santo with a steak knife. A bigger, cowardly part says he should leave immediately. He opts to listen to the part of him that’s listless. He can eat his food and drink his wine. He is powerless to do anything else.
Narancia tsks, “Fucking Santo,” he mumbles.
“Leave it,” Bucciarati warns.
Abbacchio faces the kid but, as his host as demanded, the matter is to be left alone. Dinner continues but doesn’t regain its vigour. Meal was about done, anyway.
Its clear Bucciarati has words as he hangs back on their way to the car.
“Are you okay?”
“I just wanted to make sure they didn’t try anything.”
“Good to know you’re on top of things.”
Abbacchio smiles. His ears are burning and he’s pretty damn sure it’s obvious. The hum of the window rolling down catches their attention.
“…such a cockblock,” Narancia whispers.
“I want to go home!” Fugo blurts.
Abbacchio’s lips twist, “All this for a cat?”
“It’s therapeutic and cheaper than actual therapy.” He takes out his phone, “Let me give you my number. I doubt you’d want to go through Fugo to make dinner plans.”
Dinner plans as in a date or dinner plans as in one of the family? Both are good and, if he’s not delusional, the latter is supposed to lead into the other.
Even after he’s dropped off and says goodbye, Abbacchio struggles to remain present. Loss and gain, daydreams and sordid memories, what he wants to do versus what he can do. He has two separate objectives: call Bucciarati and investigate Santo. He’ll start in the morning. Until then, he throws his clothes wherever and falls onto the couch. Enjoy the view, Ms. Lorenzo.