Nicholas: Hey guys...Wow, I'm late...I have no excuse, so please don't hit me with books! *hides* Anyway, there's a bit of Angie!angst with loads of Marco!angst in this chapter. So be forewarned that Marco does weird shit when he's angsty (and drunk, don't forget drunk).

What a jerk! It kind of pissed her off that she couldn't find the right word for how angry she was at him. Curse words were always an option, but her foster father cussed like a sailor, the Angie strayed away from that as best she could. Besides, she didn't want to stoop to Marco's level. She could be so much better than he was and she intended to. One thing was for sure: no matter what he did, she wouldn't give in; she wouldn't play war with him.

The thing was, she hadn't felt so violated in her own home in a long time. How dare he? What kind of ass do you have to be to walk in on a woman while she was showering? She could still feel the cool tingle that had crawled over her skin when he'd spoke through the steam and rush of warm water. He might as well have doused her in ice water or sprayed her with a garden hose, the effect would have been the same. To add to that, he attention was now officially severed from anything but Marco Vindetti and the fact that he was there in her house.

Angie thought of him, what he was doing right then and her jaw clenched, teeth ground in anger. Infuriated to the point of blindness, she struggled to dress herself in the bathroom. A desperate need to be covered and unexposed again lingered in her shaky hands and goose-pimpled skin, but it was almost completely overshadowed by silent disdain. He was probably acting the perfect image of an arrogant scumbag, sitting on her couch drinking a six pack of beer that she'd paid for. Nothing would set her off quicker than that in a normal situation, but this was anything but normal. This is Marco, goddamned, Vindetti, she thought with a shudder hidden by pulling an undershirt over her head.

As she took deep, calming breaths, she walked through the door to her bedroom and made a quick dash to sit at her vanity mirror. She didn't look in the mirror like a normal girl would. Things like that were saved for the morning when she needed to be decent for work. Instead, she looked through the numerous stacks of books in front of her. After a moment, she turned away, toward as short bookcase against the wall—one that happened to be next to another case just like it.

It didn't take long to find her favorite, newer novel by Kerouac. The Town and the City hadn't quite been the most checked out at the library for the last few years, so Angie snagged it as soon as she could. As quick as a flash, she was in bed with the door shut, her bedside lamp on and this book open. Nothing could be more calming than reading to forget about that vulgar pig in her living room. "The town was Galloway," Kerouac said with a voice to lure a curious mind. She didn't get more than halfway through chapter six before Jack's lullaby put her to sleep.

Sometimes Marco hated sex. Just the whole, stupid idea of it got to him and nagged like that cut on the roof of your mouth that tasted like metal and drives you insane. Or, of course, the lingering erection after less than righteous thoughts flashed across his mind.

It had all started when he thought about what Angie could have been thinking about that made her sound so scared of him in the bathroom. God, she cried. Then, for some sick, twisted reason, he remembered that she was naked and imagined what water would look like slipping and sliding over her bare skin. It was about then that he had to get the hell out of there. Maybe three seconds after he was safely on the couch with a bottle of beer, sex came to mind and he got a hard-on as if he'd never had one before.

Staring dumbly at the bulge in the crotch of his jeans, he sipped his beer. The thought of pressing hard and fast into a tight, sexy woman had him chugging bubbly, golden liquid like there was no tomorrow. He considered jerking off, but didn't want to have to explain tell-tale stains on the couch to Angie come morning. Shit…Angie and "come" should not be in the same sentence. With a grunt, he finished off the bottle and frowned.

"Bitch," he muttered under his breath. It must have been a long while since he'd gotten any if Angie was turning him on. "Fucking shit." It seemed his best bet was drinking it off. Then again… "I'm gonna need more than a six-pack to get rid of this."

Pushing himself up, he maneuvered his way to the table. His leg was still a little bit iffy, but it held him well enough. He set the empty bottle on down and leaned on the wooden surface. The more he tried to think of disgusting things to turn him off, the more he found that he couldn't take his mind off of fucking. Stomach clenching, crotch tightening, he groaned as quietly as he could manage. It felt like high school all over again—when he'd had a crush on Mrs. Neighbors, freshman year. He ditched English class to masturbate in the bathroom. The look Leon had given him when he came back was damn near hilarious.

The heat suddenly ebbed a tad bit. "Oh, that helped," he muttered, "Best thing you've done for me in years, Leon."

It didn't do much, but at least he could think clearly now. Unfortunately, the only other thought process on hand was Leon and that wasn't really something he wanted to linger on at the moment. That always led to thoughts of revenge and then remembering that he'd missed his chance. It was almost enough of a sulk trip to make him question existence and want to grab the nearest sharp object to plunge it through his hand. Wryly, it occurred to him that he was never a masochist before Leon.

He waked to the fridge—awkwardly balanced somewhere between his bad leg and his uncomfortably pulsing groin. Barely after he shut the door again, he popped off the top of another bottle with an opener that materialized out of "nowhere." It seemed like a good idea just to carry the damn thing around in his pocket. Taking a long drink, he absent-mindedly set the cap on the counter. After a sharp swallow, he inhaled deep breaths to replenish the oxygen supply to his brain.

As the effects of remembering Leon started to fade, the heat in his stomach did the same until it was just some uncomfortable, slightly painful sensation. He had to get off, some way or another. If not, he thought he might just go insane from the pressure. He took another short drink and set the bottle down with a slightly enlightened expression. There was always the bathroom.

He opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible and looked through the surprisingly lit room. Sure, there had been light under the door, but the lamp on the nightstand was brighter than he'd anticipated. In fact, it kind of hurt his eyes at first. Eyes squinted, he glanced in and quickly scanned the bed. All the time he'd been in there, he hadn't actually seen her in bed, or anything like that. A slow chill quivered through his body as he stepped inside. This was always the warmest place in the apartment.

Instead of the excepted "Fuck off, Marco!" all he heard was a quiet snore. She was asleep. With the light on and her window open, she's fallen asleep. That little chill he'd felt before melted away to violent annoyance at her stupidity. A barrage of different scenarios flittered about his mind from a burglary to catching cold. He wanted to think that she just deserved whatever would happen to her, but…

As he was finishing his business in the bathroom, he couldn't help that natural instinct he felt to be the "man of the house." It was all his damn father's fault for his twisted personality. One moment, he wanted to wring her scrawny neck. Then the next, he just remembered his childhood trauma. Every time he'd heard Mariangela cry like that, he just knew that there was something deep and terrible going on in her little head. Whatever she was thinking scared her so bad and not even Ma could deal with it. Maybe she just never wanted to.

Stop it, he scolded himself silently. He hadn't even gotten out of the damn bathroom before he would hear that screaming again. His arms ached with something like want. No, not now, he thought dismally, don't start this again, Marco. That buzz he'd gotten from the alcohol wasn't helping him distract himself. Pressing his forehead against the wooden door, he tensed against an onslaught of emotions. Marco Vindette didn't feel emotion, all of that just made him seem weak. Wanting to go back and fix the past—stop that bullet from tearing through his family—it was a fruitless venture. He had been cheated out of ever having a little sister, of ever holding her, beating up potential boyfriends, and he couldn't change that.

"Fuck it," he muttered, opening the door.

The urge was too great to ignore and it had him crossing the room to the window. Sure, she tended to be an idiot sometimes and more often than not, she was infuriating, but he remembered easily that she had helped him when he needed it. Even though he would never admit it aloud that he'd needed help, it was true. He slid the pane down and locked it tightly and then went to her bedside.

As he reached for the lamp, he couldn't help but notice the awkward angle she was laying in. That, if nothing else, brought his attention. She's such a bookworm, he thought with good humor. This was a little more forgivable that just recklessly passing out. She was still clutching the hard-back cover in her pale, thin hand. Carefully, he loosened her grip and took the book from her. The Town and the City, by Jack Kerouac: it read. He tried not to smirk too ridiculously wide at her quiet, high-pitched whimper when he folded down the corner of the page that she was on and set the novel on the nightstand.

He couldn't explain his sudden urge to make her comfortable or that he was suddenly staring at her so deeply that he couldn't look away. What was with this sudden sentiment when only a short time before he was wishing sickness on her? The feeling made him a bit nervous, but he wouldn't believe that he hands were shaking. Abruptly, he was repulsed; he didn't want to touch her or see her or even inhale that floral shampoo scent that seemed to cling to her. Having all of that around him made his head swim a bit and he finally felt the buzz from the beer turn into something more intense.

A little voice in his head laughed at him and called him a dickless yuppie and fuck if it didn't sound like his father. Great, now I'm losing my mind, but even as he tried to keep his thoughts so sarcastic, that fear gripped him. His throat tightened and his heart sped up in a way that hadn't gone off since the day he turned eighteen. The fear was that he was not strong enough, not good enough to do anything right. It was stupid and irrational, but his dad had carved it so permanently in his mind that the scar burned a nasty shade of blue.

Forget her, said the proverbial devil, let her get kinks in her neck in the morning. She deserves it. Marco shook his head and rubbed his brow absently. This was just silly that he would be fighting with himself over something so stupid as moving her. Unfortunately, the truth that the previous statement left out was that he was debating touching her in general. He wanted to hit her, then he wanted to just leave her alone and walk out of this damn apartment forever. Neither was an option because he was moving without thinking.

Pulling the blanket back just a little, he chased away the thought that she was wearing a too-tight, sleeveless shirt and shorts. With hands that genuinely tried to be gentle, he held Angie's upper body and worked the rest of her down the mattress a bit. She was so warm that for a moment, he didn't think he could stand it. Not in the way that it burned him, it was just that he was so done with the thought of heat and contact and skin-on-skin for one night. As he laid her back down and went to rearrange the pillows, she voiced a startling, agonized whimper. He went stock still the moment her eyes shot open.

"Marco!?" Her voice bordered a screech. On reflex, she shoved him, trying with some desperate instinct to make him disappear.

Shock was one way to describe it. Marco wasn't quite sure what to do being that he hadn't banked on her waking up at all. That she was freaking out made him nervous, so much so that he couldn't leave. He wanted to just get the fuck out of there and let her deal with whatever was making her like this, but his legs wouldn't let him. She shoved him again and before he knew it, he was furious.

"Stop it," he snapped. Without a thought, he grabbed her wrist to stop her shoving him. It would be easy to make excuses and say that he didn't mean to be so rough, that he was just going through some traumatic episode that was her fault to begin with, but that would be a big, honking piece of BS. He wanted the power and the control over the situation. He'd been like this a long time.

"What are you doing!?" Angie took a strangled gasp of air and then the terror found her and she could do nothing but struggle. "Stop!"

"Shut up," Marco insisted heavily. Glaring at her with some unknown source of his anger, he pressed a hand down on her clavicle just where it met her neck. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Marco, you're drunk! Get out of here!"

And just like that, Marco honestly felt his heart stop and his fingers go cold. He wasn't even ten the first time he heard those words. It hadn't been him, of course. It was the only assertion his mother had shown toward his father. Like a whipped dog, Marco ran out of that room.