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“Hey… Bucciarati? Are you okay?”
The soldato didn’t respond at first. Was he okay? The answer was, clearly, a resounding “NO,” but… that was a luxury of a question, in his line of work. Still, he knew what had set it off: seeing the child who had watched their father be attacked. It hit close to home. Too close to home. Normally, he could shut the wave of dread and sorrow and horrible memories out and deal with it later. But, for some reason, at that moment, that strategy was not working at all.
Bruno’s words to his newest teammate were curt: “I’m fine.” When he tried to move to prove his point, he stumbled, catching himself on the door frame of his apartment.
“H-Hey! Sit down! I’ll get you some water, okay?”
A growl: “I don’t need water.”
Narancia didn’t seem phased by his show of toughness, as he had gone to the kitchen anyway. “Well, I want water, and since that was one hell of a fight, you’re getting some too.”
Bruno had to admit that water did sound good. Still… was he really that obvious to read? Was he such a pathetic leader that he couldn’t even keep his shit together in front of a child? (As if he weren’t a child himself…)
Wordlessly, the elder of the two sat down on a large couch, collapsing into it against his will. He was shaking involuntarily. Oh, god. He was pathetic. Bucciarati closed his eyes. He needed to get his shit together and stat. He needed to stop thinking about that kid, eyes full of tears, covered in his father’s blood. He needed to stop remembering how scared he’d been, age 12, blood on his hands after he’d stabbed his father’s attackers. He needed to tuck those feelings away, zip them into a wall. He couldn’t afford to--
Bruno’s thoughts were stopped as he felt a set of bony arms wrap around him.
“That was fucked up.” The boy said, squeezing his superior tighter in a hug from the side. He must have come back with water while Bruno had been spiralling.
When he replied, the words were shakier than he would have liked to admit. “Quite.”
The two sat in silence. Surprisingly enough, Narancia’s friendly embrace was enough to ground Bucciarati, who felt his breaths slow and his thoughts begin to calm.
After a long while: “Thank you, Narancia.”
There was no reply. But, looking down, Bruno saw a mop of raven-black hair below his chin. The boy’s head rested against Bucciarati's side as his breaths gently undulated. Must have fallen asleep…
The young man felt himself smile. He rustled Narancia’s hair, and the boy hummed, comfortable and cozy. As Bruno began to dose, the images and sounds replaying from that mission had been replaced by pleasant dreams he wouldn’t be able to remember. Even so, the feeling of contentment remained.