PRETTY SICK!
— undress ☆

Angie's ice-cold fingers wrapped around the telephone as she placed the little change she had from her pockets into the machine, and dialed her aunt's home phone number. It rang a few times, then clicked with a short, "Hello?"

"Um... hey, Tabby... I, um..."

"Is it Julie again?" Tabby sighed, "I'll be over in a bit." And the line went dead.

Aunt Tabitha was kind, skittish as ever, but still kind-hearted as she tried her best to put up with both her sister and all of the children that came with her. She left money, food, and gifts on birthdays and holidays. Still, she kept them at arm's length like everyone else, for the sake of her own happiness. Angie never knew her mother before she became a mother, so she never experienced Julie Olsen as a happy, young girl. It probably hurt to watch her become a shell of what she once was.

The girl shivered at the thought, and because the November weather felt very unforgiving as the breeze hit Angelica's bare arms. She had no coat, only enough change to make one more call, and very few people who had the gall to lend her a bed for the night. Normally she asked Raymond, but whenever she sent him on a 'mission' he preferred to be left alone, which meant no spontaneous sleepovers.

She sighed and wiped her face as she realized she may have to wait until an ungodly hour in the morning to sneak back into her room to avoid conflict; then a fleeting thought crossed her mind. It came as fast as it went— Steve Harrington. It felt weird the moment the idea appeared, foreign and nostalgic in a way that made all of her innards flip upside down inside of her. Was she giddy? Excitement that pooled in her stomach, a childish excitement she got only from the thought of hanging out with him.

It was like going back in time to when things were simpler, before it went to shit.

Hesitantly, she pushed her quarters into the small slit and held her breath as she dialed the number of the Harrington home. Usually she never called beforehand, but it seemed like common courtesy after not speaking to him for months, right? It rang, then rang again, and a few more times before it was answered, "Hello?"

Steve sounded breathless, like he'd ran halfway across the house to get the phone — and he probably did, but Angie found her voice caught in her throat. "Hello?" he asked again and cursed under his breath about it being a prank caller.

"Um... hey," Angie replied slowly, "I just... it's Angie."

"Oh." Silence. He cleared his throat unsurely, and Angie could almost hear him run a hand through his hair. "Ange, hey. What's up?"

The blonde chewed her lip as she felt tears well up in her eyes once again, the anger in her chest from the argument with Julie completely faded the moment she heard him respond. "I- uh, me and my mom were fighting — she like, y'know how she gets... um, can I stay over?" she asked and covered the receiver for a moment to choke back a breathy sob.

"Uh, yeah? Duh," Steve responded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, oblivious to the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "Do you need me to pick you up?"

Angie wiped her nose, thankful he couldn't see through the telephone line. "No, I'm like, a mile away."

"Are you on the payphone? I'll meet you halfway."

"It's fine, Steve —" but he hung up before Angie could fully protest, and she sighed once she realized she'd made him get up and go outside at a late hour.

The thing about her was that she wasn't afraid to be upset or shed a few tears, but she hated causing other people trouble because of it. It was the inevitable look of exhaustion when they couldn't handle her that made her stomach drop to her knees. She hung up the phone and placed it onto the receiver, continuously wiping at the fallen tears; her emotions were too big to fit in her body, and the way people reacted when she expressed them proved that.

Angie cursed under her breath as she trudged in the direction of Steve's house, and she thought about taking back what she said, turning around and heading back home without a word, but she was sure Steve would pop a blood vessel out of anxiety. Something about a bear in his backyard? One that seemed aggressive towards people — even if he refused to show her, Angelica could tell he grew uneasy when she said she could walk the mile alone.

It was strange. She heard Steve grow nervous over important basketball games or swim meets, but never over something as trivial as Angie walking a mile by herself, and never with the same kind of perturbed noise in the back of his throat. She wondered if the missing people still had him shaken up, even a year later. One of them disappeared from his party, for Christ's sake, she doubted anyone sat and talked about his feelings with him — jock guys never did that, it was for 'pussies'.

Before her mind could wander too far, as she came up over the hill on Kerley, she saw the figure of none other than Steve Harrington jog in her direction. He waved at her and pointed a flashlight directly into her face, which she recoiled from and shut her eyes with a deep cringe. "Steve," Angie deadpanned.

"Oops," he chortled and sheepishly lowered the beam of light. "Hey, Ange." Steve's hair was tousled, messy, something only few people have ever been honored enough to see. A few strands fell in front of his face when he'd move his head at a certain angle, and he would push or blow them out of the way each time.

"Hi," she smiled softly and walked so she would be beside him. Angie didn't get a good look at his clothes until she glanced at him next to her, it wasn't anything special: it looked like he grabbed whatever jacket and shirt he found on his bedroom floor first, because he had his plaid pajama pants on. She felt bad for making him get up and walk at the hour.

"Were you dancing?" the brunette asked and motioned to her white leggings underneath a pink bodysuit, and Angie nodded while they started to walk down the dark street.

The shorter girl shrugged and tucked her arms around herself, nonchalantly as she could muster given the circumstances. "Earlier. She called me for um, one of those family dinners and I didn't think about changing. It's whatever, I guess, I'm sure she'll just act like nothing happened once the sun comes up."

A ghost of a frown crossed his lips; for a moment she thought he'd give her the same bullshit about how families always have speed bumps as one of them reach their teenage years. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his gaze ahead of him, "Screw her, we should... I don't know, party? My parents aren't home."

"A party with two people?" she inquired, somewhat incredulously because a party with two people sounded like the lamest thing in the world.

"I mean, yeah, a couple beers, some music — that's a party, isn't it?" Steve glanced at her, his brown eyes raked her shivering form for a second before he shrugged off his jacket, a grey windbreaker (his letterman's jacket made him look too young, apparently.). He held it out for her with a small smile.

Angie grabbed it and put it on graciously, flicking her hair out from under the collar. It smelled earthy and fresh, like the air before rainfall, or the woods next to his home. "I guess," she replied, thinking it might've been a lie to make him feel better. "Or, better idea: we order a pizza, get fat and sleepy, then fall asleep watching Risky Business."

"Or — even better — I show you some new tapes I got." Out of all things, the last thing Angie expected Steve Harrington to be interested in was what she liked to listen to — every time he got something new from Rocky's Records it would have to get the Angelica Bell stamp of approval before he played it in front of anyone else. She could only imagine the mental torture of the past year when he went to play a tape for someone else, how would he know if it was good? And it made her smile to herself that he still wanted her opinion on what to listen to.

"As long as I get to eat."

Steve nodded and pushed open the double doors that lead into his house dramatically. "Yeah, yeah, I can cook or something — multitasking. You listen to the tapes and watch me play sexy chef for a little while."

"Sexy chef?" Angie chuckled and walked in, her eyes flitted around the house as it was kept prim, proper, and up to par with Mrs. Harrington's interior decoration standards. Still as modern as the last time she'd stepped foot in it, but the objects looked like they had gotten swapped for something newer, sleeker. Rich people were strange like that.

"Uh, yeah?" He shook his head and spoke in a tone that said 'duh'. "Everything I do is sexy; eat, sleep, cook, play — you name it, Steve's doing it sexily."

"Right." She nodded, unconvinced.

"You don't see the charm? The allure?" Steve asked as he turned his head left and right to give her an entire three hundred and sixty view of his face. Angie inspected his face for a moment, eyes darting from the corner of his mouth, to his moles, to his nose then his eyes. His breath hitched slightly from the proximity, which the blonde didn't notice.

Angie let out a short laugh and shoved him gently, he stumbled back from it, but caught himself and played it off as if it were on purpose. "I see a whole lot of stupid, but... if it makes you feel better." She rolled her eyes, "Get cookin', good lookin'."

"Hey, you said it, not me." Steve grinned and tossed his hands up into a shrug before he loaded a cassette tape into his radio. She doubted Steve had many people who sat and listened to music with him while he cooked, so there was a melancholic feeling about the cassette tape holder that sat on the counter. Did he use it to fill the silence when he cooked alone?

He rewound it, then stopped it on the song he wanted. "You Give Love A Bad Name" by Bon Jovi boomed through the speakers, extremely loud from whatever he was doing with it beforehand, which he jumped to turn down.

"But... you did say it," she laughed, "Is this Bon Jovi?"

Steve busied himself in the kitchen, far too quickly for Angie to keep track of what he pulled out from the fridge and each cupboard. "Yep, we're going all the way back to what got released in January. I need to give you a rundown from each month."

"Oh, I'm honoured," Angie replied and leaned forward to see what Steve was doing better, then pushed herself up to sit on the island and watch Steve cook for them.

"Good, you better be," he said in a fake stern tone as he pointed the spatula at her. She raised her hands in feigned defense and nodded in response. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

She chuckled and lowered her arms, nearly starting to grovel in delight at the scent that came from the stove. He may have not been the brightest bulb in the shop, but God, Steve could cook. He blamed it on the countless days that his mom and dad left him alone in the house with enough money that he could buy whatever the hell he wanted to eat. Takeout lost its charm quickly, and he needed to eat real food if he wanted to have any energy, so he taught himself how to cook.

Angie was, well, the complete opposite. No matter how many times she tried to cook a dish, and how closely she followed the recipe, it always became a complete disaster unless it was something simple like grilled cheese. Even her baked goods looked like they had been hit by a car by the time she got to decorating.

"Surely it can't be that bad." People tried to reason whenever she told them, but each and every time she did try to cook for them, it resulted in an unpleasantly screwed up face, or gagging and even vomiting a few times. It was a lost cause. So she stuck to simple meals and things that required minimal effort to spare her and her poor mother from the wrath that was her cooking.

Steve served her and sat down next to her, his own plate in hand. Neither of them spoke as they ate, seemingly because they were both too busy savoring and enjoying what he'd cooked — salmon and vegetables. He remembered that she couldn't eat red meat. It was so minuscule, and Angie wouldn't have been mad if he hadn't remembered, but it meant the world that he did.

Plus, she'd rather not break out in hives and throw up all over his floor from an easily avoided allergy.

He sent her totally sneaky and inconspicuous glances while he ate, his brows knitted together in thought for a moment, then Steve cleared his throat. "What, uh... what was the argument about?"

"Just like, the usual. I dunno. I'm ungrateful and stupid... y'know." The blonde pressed her lips into a flat line and shrugged slightly, trying to play it off as nothing, meanwhile the words repeated in the back of her head like a record. Her head tilted, and she paused for a moment, hesitating to be vulnerable with him again. "I just, like — sometimes I wonder if she's right."

Steve frowned and put his plate down, frantically shaking his head. "What? No... no, no, no way. Ange, you're like, one of the best people I know. She's, no offense, full of shit — easier said than done, but don't take what she said to heart." He looked at Angie, who must have looked unconvinced because he kept talking. His brows pinched, and he glanced down at his hands for a split second. "Uh, when I think my mom is right when she's pitching a fit, I remind myself that she married my dad. So, her judgment is completely —" he gave her a thumbs-down and blew a raspberry.

This persuaded Angie more than she thought, because this fact was also true for her and Steve knew that. She unknitted her brows and tapped the fork against her plate, "I guess so..." the blonde reasoned and locked eyes with a crimson red vase on the window sill. She tilted her head at it, replying spacily, "Yeah..."

"Yeah — What are you...? Oh, the vase," he said once he realized her attention had completely shifted onto it, something that used to, and still happened often. Zoning out. "My mom got it, I don't know why; we already have twelve other vases."

She wasn't listening. Angie hummed and nodded, racking her brain for why she found the color so intriguing — it was a brighter crimson, unlike blood, more of a very slight burgundy. Like the pants of one of the men in The Execution of Lady Jane Grey. The vase stood out like a sore thumb, and Angie struggled to find the reason why Mrs. Harrington would place that color there. Maybe so people like Angie would stop and stare.

"Have you ever heard of the nine day queen?" she asked and glanced at Steve, who looked confused with the question.

"No?" he smiled slightly, his thick eyebrows knitted together in a gentle connection. Steve felt out of his element from the question (Angie saw it on his face), but instead of finding her odd or freakish, he almost looked charmed by her distrait antics.

"Lady Jane Grey. She was queen for nine days before she got disposed to be executed for high treason, but the thing is, Mary Tudor organized it so that she could become queen instead," Angie explained, "There's a painting about it. The executioner in the painting has tights on that're the same color as the vase."

Steve listened closely, his head bobbing along as he held onto her sentences and glanced between her and the vase. Angie felt her face grow warm at the action, people never usually listened to her with such intent. "Red tights?" His face scrunched up. "Not the move for someone's execution."

She chuckled and glanced down at her empty plate, "I know... sorry, I completely went off topic."

"It's fine, you're just... appreciating the beauty — or something. I hate the vase a little less now. Plus, I get to hear your Chicago accent thing."

Angie blinked in confusion, she didn't have an accent. "What?"

"Your accent?"

"I don't have one."

"Say 'accent'."

"Accent."

"You so have one, Ange," Steve laughed and nudged her with his elbow, which she tried and failed to dodge. "You seriously didn't know? That's why I've called you Chicago since like, forever."

The blonde squinted at him in thought, her brows crinkling together as she stared at him for a moment. "No... I feel like you're playing a prank on me or something," she admitted and sent him a faux-annoyed look. This was completely new news to her, no one else pointed it out.

"You're definitely pranking me," Steve laughed, the sound magnetic.

"I'm not." She shook her head, her hair that fell out of her ponytail bouncing around her cheeks and eyes. Steve paused his laughter for a moment to look at her, just a split second before he tossed his head back again. Angie wondered how many other people believed she had an accent, maybe Billy did? God, she hoped not. He must have thought she sounded stupid, or something — maybe she needed to squash it out?

He reached over and shook her by her shoulder gently, his laughter still emanated around the room — she couldn't help but titter along while she tried to shimmy out of his grasp. For the first time in a very long time, Angie felt normal, her brain ceased its racing thoughts and the calmness that surrounded her was intoxicating. But... there was a distinct, almost tactile anticipation when the sun came up over the horizon. She was the unsuspecting victim.

––————
——— AUTHOR'S NOTE
i guess this kind of counts as
filler, but they're apart of two
separate storylines so they dont
interact as much this season,
so... i made them interact
outside of canon happenings lol

next chapter... is... let's just say
they get into the actual swing of
things next chapter 😸 yeah...

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PRETTY SICK!
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