Takes place sometime in Season 3 after The Christmas Card. Angela is dating Geoffrey but becomes ill and Tony has to take care of her. A behind-the-scenes episode, totally Canon, of what could have taken place when the audience wasn't watching. . .
The train ride was jostling her neck. Angela couldn't get comfortable in her small seat; the press of the other riders was making her sweaty despite the aching chill deep in her bones. A sour smell pervaded her riding car—an unpleasant mixture of wet wool, stale cigarettes and potato chips. She miserably leaned her head into her hands and tried to close her eyes. She just wanted to get home after the difficult day she'd had. All day she'd been dragging herself, unable to muster sufficient energy for the intense demands of work at her brand new agency
And then Jim Peterson, her former colleague from Wallace & McQuaid had won an account that Angela was so certain to have secured. Mr. Harper had been poised to sign a contract with The Bower Agency only yesterday and then reneged at the last moment with no explanations. What Jim didn't know was that Angela still had friends at Wallace & McQuaid and one of her former assistants had given her the lowdown on how she'd lost her account. Jim had all but stolen her prospective client from under her nose by spreading crude lies about her. The same lies he'd spread at her cocktail party; the lies that had gotten him thrown out into the snow, on his ass by an outraged Tony. Angela pictured the way Jim had looked after being tossed out the door; glasses askew on his face, clothes dirty and dishevelled, and his expression livid . . . Tony had been defending her honour. She mentally smiled at the memory, too weak to form an actual smile on her face. In fact, her face was aching. Her head was throbbing and when she looked out the window, the weak, dying sun scorched her retinas. She gasped at the pain in her eyelids when she looked into natural light and closed her eyes again.
"Are you alright, Dear?" Mona asked her. Angela definitely did not look well. A light sheen of perspiration was forming on her brow, yet she was shivering. Mona touched her daughter's forehead in a quintessential, unexpected motherly gesture. The skin beneath her hands was hot and damp.
"Mother, you're hurting my head. Could you please stop pressing my forehead?"
"Angela, you're sick! You're running a fever. I thought you seemed lethargic today and you barely reacted when that scum Peterson, stole the Fibre Kernels Cereal account away from you." Mona was worried. Angela rarely got sick beyond her annual winter cold. She was always working, reliable, energetic, a real 'Type A' go-getter.
"Perhaps I'm catching a cold, Mother. I just need a good night's sleep and tomorrow, I'll give Jim a piece of my mind", she responded in a quiet voice devoid of expression. Her throat hurt too much to speak beyond a low whisper.
"I highly doubt you'll be doing anything at all tomorrow" Mona informed her daughter acerbically.
Angela didn't argue; her throat and head were aching too deeply for her to care about being right or wrong or sick or healthy. She just wanted to get home and into bed. If only she could stop shivering; maybe Tony would have some hot soup for her. And he could put his arms around her if she was cold . . .no! Angela mentally rearranged her contemplations. Geoffrey. She needed Geoffrey's arms around her to warm her up. But Geoffrey and warmth were not synonymous. Tony exuded warmth. Warmth and comfort and masculine energy. Too tired to chastise herself for the thought, Angela simply allowed her mind to wander to thoughts of Tony.
Tony, who had encouraged her to found The Bower Agency after Wallace & McQuaid had fired her. Tony, who had supported her, comforted her and been her confidant during one of the most difficult times of her life. Tony, who had helped her find the confidence she needed. She dozed off on the train, leaning against her mother. No thoughts of Geoffrey entered her groggy, fever-addled mind. She just wanted to get home to Tony. Tony was her home.
When Angela and Mona arrived at the train station, Mona decided that her daughter was in no condition to drive them home so she declared with a confidence that she didn't quite feel, that she would be driving them back to the house. She expected an argument but Angela simply slumped into the passenger side of her own car and allowed her mother to drive her. Mona raised her eyebrows in surprise but said nothing. Her daughter was usually so protective of her Jaguar and always insisted on driving.
When they finally pulled into the driveway, Mona's anxiety had risen a notch. Didn't matter that her daughter was in her thirties; the visceral worry that mothers always have when their children are ill was rearing its head, mostly in her stomach. Mona apprehensively helped her daughter into the house, ever so grateful that Tony was here. Tony with his homemade Italian remedies of garlic, lemon and honey tea. Tony with his soothing, reassuring manner and take-charge attitude. That's what they all needed at the moment.
Tony was in the kitchen helping the kids with their homework while preparing dinner. Samantha and Jonathan both had their textbooks and notebooks spread out all over the kitchen table; his fifth grade geography book competing for space with her eighth grade math work.
"But Dad, these fractions aren't making any sense!" Sam complained to her father while he strained the pasta.
"Hold on, Sam. I can only do one thing at a time. Let me just finish this and I'll be right with you . . ." Tony did a little two-step to the fridge, crossed the kitchen back to the stove and threw a generous blob of butter into his linguine. He was making Linguine in Rose Sauce, one of Angela's favorites and certainly appreciated by the kids too.
"Tony, does this map look right to you?" Jonathan asked him.
"Hey, I get him first!" Sam huffed at the younger boy.
"Both of ya, wait!" Tony admonished them as he stirred his rose sauce. Homework time always coincided with dinner preparation and helping kids in two different grades while managing a healthy meal for five could be a bit of a challenge.
Satisfied with his sauce, Tony sat at the kitchen table with the kids and answered their math and geography questions as patiently as he could. He needed to get started on the salad now. Angela and Mona would be home any minute. As if they'd read his mind, the women entered the house through the front door.
Angela made a wobbly beeline for the sofa and stretched herself out. Her head was begging for rest and her neck was having trouble holding it up. Mona worriedly observed her before calling out for Tony.
Tony was unaware of his smile forming; Angela was home. He hurried out to the living room to greet her and Mona. "How are my two favourite working girls today? Did you get the cereal account?" he called out as he swung open the kitchen door. He always made sure he knew exactly what accounts Angela was working on so he could encourage her. She in turn, always confided in him about her clients, the difficulties and the successes of running her agency.
"We lost it . . . to Jim Peterson", Mona informed him. "And, Angela is sick. She's running a temperature."
Tony looked at Angela in surprise. She was lying prone on the couch, looking quite unwell. His mother hen instincts took over strongly.
"Angela, you're sick? What's wrong? Is it your head? Your throat? Your stomach?" Tony put a warm hand on her hot forehead and winced. She was quite feverish indeed. "Angela, why didn't you come home earlier?"
"Tony, please stop", Angela whined. His barrage of well-meaning questions was stressing her out. "I had to try and salvage the cereal account but Jim stole it. I couldn't leave early—it was too busy."
"He stole it? What happened?" Tony couldn't stand Jim Peterson and his sick innuendos about Angela. The man was a jealous creep, unable to handle a younger woman's success.
Angela tried to form a coherent sentence but she was terribly lethargic, so instead she just stated it in the must succinct way possible to conserve her energy. "He told Mr. Harper that I was fired from Wallace & McQuaid because I'm a two-bit tramp. You know the old spiel, Tony. You heard it at my cocktail party." Angela was resigned to it; her energy too low to even care at this point. There would always be Jim Petersons in this world and sometimes it seemed that there was simply no way to fight them. Especially not when she was fighting a fever, aches and chills at the same time. She looked up at Tony helplessly and closed her eyes in defeat.
"He what? Oh, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind and then a piece of my fist . . ."Tony began angrily. He wanted to beat the crap out of Jim Peterson—that man had usurped Angela's position and now he was stealing accounts from her. Tony was furious.
"Tony, calm down", Angela said. "It's par for the course when you're a woman making it in a man's world. You have no idea how much smutty innuendo and opposition I've already come against throughout my career. I'll deal with Jim tomorrow. Right now, I need to go lie down." She forced herself off of the couch and slowly began to head up the stairs when the kids suddenly burst out of the kitchen to greet her.
"Mom! Look at the map I made." Jonathan began running towards his mother but Tony put out his arms to stop the little boy.
"Jonathan, your mom is sick. Keep a safe distance, kids. I don't want you catching whatever she's got", Tony warned them.
"You're sick, Angela?" Samantha asked, worried.
"I'll be alright" Angela reassured them. "Best to be safe, though and do what Tony said. I'm going to lie down upstairs for a bit."
"But Tony made Linguine in Rose Sauce", Jonathan protested. His mom never skipped dinner and certainly not Tony's Italian cooking.
Angela shook her head and made her apologies, disappointing and worrying her entire family. She could hear Tony telling her to take acetaminophen along with promises of hot tea on the way. When she finally made it up the stairs, she felt as though she'd just climbed Mount Everest- her entire body was trembling from chills. Angela quickly undressed and took a very hot shower, as hot as she could stand it before collapsing into bed wearing her thickest flannel nightgown. She vaguely remembered something about needing to take pain killers but the shower had used up the last of her strength, so she simply closed her eyes, nestled in the warmth of her thick, goose down duvet.
Tony decided to go check on Angela the minute the kids had finished their suppers. He'd been brewing her some herbal tea with lemon and garlic and made her a light repast of buttered toast, figuring that she wouldn't want anything else. He took her tray upstairs and lightly knocked at her bedroom door, then slowly let himself in when she didn't answer. She was asleep, her breathing fast from the fever. Tony put her tray on the night table and felt her forehead. Still so hot. He didn't like this at all—in the two and a half years he'd lived with her, Angela had never had a fever like this. He wanted to take her temperature and see how high it was but didn't want to wake her. Instead, he closed the door behind him making a mental note to check on her later.
To Be Continued . . .