( some pucci content for you lovely babes)
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Life never spares its inconveniences to its best. God only troubles those at the bottom of the chain, and Pucci theorizes that this was one of those times he was looking to be entertained again. Ever his loyal jester, Pucci puts on a show.
He doesn't remember when he passed out, barely even recalling the reason, when he awakes in a disgustingly bright white room. The air reeks of rubber and cold, and his body shudders against the cool table he's layed on.
There's an unmistakable throbbing in his ankle, a pounding that serves as an instant reminder to his mistake. There was a spill-- he thinks it was a spill-- in the kitchen that he slid upon, and fell as a result of.
He can hear his breathing in his ears, and winces at the oncoming headache steadily creeping towards him. You stand not too far away, he notes, talking idly to Vendetta, someone he never really had to take notice of before now.
He's only the slightest bit shorter than yourself, clad with a white coat that fell to his knees, and blue gloves that squeaked with each movement of his hands. He doesn't come off as someone particularly dangerous, though Pucci would suppose that nurses aren't meant to be threatening anyway.
"Ah, you're awake!" He chirps, peeking around your shoulder to beam at him. "If you'll give me a minute, I'll let you know of everything wrong with you so you can get back to resting."
You turn around as well, looking at him with an obvious expression of pity-- or maybe disappointment? Whatever it was, he didn't like it.
Vendetta was quick to cut his conversation short, scurrying over to the side of his hospital bed with a single sheet of paper in hand. The heavy brown curls on his head danced like springs as he moved about, checking along Pucci's body as he listed off everything worth taking note of.
His twisted ankle was the biggest concern. It was swollen to nearly the size of a plum, and almost as purple as one too. The rest of the bruises and cuts he could care less about, as this was the only thing impeding him from his work, something that gave him a sense of stability, however slight.
"For now, you just need some rest. I've been made aware you possess particularly strange abilities like the rest of us, so I expect your healing to come along a lot faster than normal. Give yourself a day and all should be fine." Vendetta advised. "Just keep pressure off it if you can."
"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Vendetta."
"It's my pleasure."
He couldn't have left the room any quicker, scampering off into the room neighboring the one he was in, most likely to document the injury and what not before putting it in the records.
You remained quiet, standing stiff as a soldier at the foot of his bed, with that same insufferable look you had before.
"I'm sorry this happened," Is what he thinks you're wanting to hear. "I wasn't paying attention and didn't even notice the hazard, and now you're out of someone to handle the kitchen. I'll be fine with working on my breaks to make up for what's been missed."
"Don't be ridiculous." You scoffed. "An accident is an accident, don't apologize for something as stupid as this."
"But I must. You're a busy person, Mx. (Y/n), and I've all but inconvenienced you in the worst way."
"Nonsense. The people will do fine without some food, they do well enough on alcohol alone anyways. If I need to, I'll have Doppio step in."
"Work, Mx. (Y/n), I need something to do else I'll go mad. Just laying here, on a bed more akin to any table than a place to rest, I'd lose my mind in a matter of minutes." Pucci was never one to complain, though he finds himself divulging in the desire against his will. "If there is anything you could spare to keep me distracted, I would appreciate it greatly."
"Work, as a distraction?" You repeat, quirking an eyebrow. "Please understand that Vendettas advice should never be taken lightly. Rest is what you need, not some distraction."
"I won't be able to sleep with a swollen ankle like this. Just until the pain has settled enough, I want to be able to get something productive done. Then I will rest."
You remain as you stand, eyes narrowing deadly. "You think you are in any position to demand me of something? Do not forget your place, Enrico; Else I be tempted to give your other ankle the same treatment as the first."
Pucci shrinks in on himself, and quickly regrets his phrasing. So soon he forgets that he is not as friendly with you as he'd like to be, and that you still hold the leash of debt along his neck.
"However," You continue. "I suppose giving you a slice of my workload might do some good, if that's really what you'd like."
"Yes, please."
Breaking your stiff stance, you walked along the edge of the bed till you were at its side, swiftly but carefully slipping your hands beneath his back and legs in a manner so effortless Pucci didn't even process he'd been picked up at first.
It was only by the time you'd made it to the door that he finally realized you didn't plan on setting him down, and rightfully confused, he looked up at you for an answer, to which you only give with a brief glare.
Right. He can't walk.
As it stood, he'd have to bare the humiliation of being carried around like he was some fine china doll, his head shamefully forced to fit on your shoulder as he awkwardly hugged your neck for an ounce of support.
He swore he could hear the questioning mumbles of his co-workers from the main room as you passed, the mocking snickers of Dio prevailing through even the bustling crowd of gamblers swamping the area.
At that point, he found it preferable to just close his eyes and endure it all, the sudden sway of his body telling him that he was already being carried up the stairs. The bumpy ride fell smooth as the last step had been climbed, and the flat level continued to roll on before the clicking of a doorknob met his ears.
It wasn't long before he was thrown to the velvet seat not too far from your desk, eyes snapping open from surprise as you stood above him once more. "Wait here."
You left and returned within the same minute, your once empty arm now adorned with a thick blanket draped over it. With a quick shake, it was laid along his body in a descending sheet, with a pillow snuck beneath his head.
'How homely.' He'd thought, settling into the couch comfortably.
Just as he was really beginning to feel the effects of his painkillers hitting, finally ready to rest, a stack of papers slammed against his stomach, with a pen dropping against his chest to match. "There's your work."
There wasn't much else you said, besides the grumble beneath your breath he couldn't make out, before you retreated to your own desk, the droning sound of key pounding beginning to dispel from your laptop.
He was quiet as a church mouse as he shuffled around to sit upright, awkwardly catching the papers as they teetered over and threatened to spill onto the floor.
A deadly calm overtook the room, a threatening silence that seemed to hold a knife at his throat, daring him to break it. He scrawled away at the papers in his lap, considering, as you payed no mind to his presence.
It went on like that for an hour, his mind splitting into debate against itself as it fought to decide on whether to speak or not, the thrumming of the remaining pain in his ankle only stressing him even more.
Just as he had finished his work, he turned to look at you and at least try to engage in a minimal conversation, only to find you'd already been staring.
"How's your foot feeling?" You asked, bent fingers paused above your keyboard in a frozen claw. "Any better?"
"Much better than before, thank you." He pushed his finished work in your direction somewhat proudly. "I've finished what you've given me-- Might I have some more?"
"No, I don't think so. You've done enough."
With the sudden change in tone, he began to suspect he'd done something wrong, your gloved hand reaching out to pluck the papers from his grasp before tossing them into the towering pile beside you.
Pucci shifted uncomfortably in his seat when you shot out of your chair, making your way toward him as you fiddled with your cufflinks. Just as before, with no warning other than a 'hold still', he was hoisted into your arms again as though he weighed no more than a feather.
The trip over to his room was short-lived, the door lazily thrown open by your foot and making way for you to step inside. His bed was the second closest to the entrance, thankfully, so almost no time was spent getting him layed down and situated.
"If you need anything, just shout. I should be able to hear you from my office." You said, tucking him in. "If not, I'll have someone come by to check on you in half an hour, alright?"
With sleep pulling on his eyelids like lead weights, he could only manage a sloppy nod as his head sunk into his pillow, the gentle movement of a hand brushing along his hair sending the idle man dreaming.
It's just as sweet, and just as bitter, as saccharine-- The realization that he might not hate it here that much after all.