Nicholas: I suppose this officially makes this a chapter fic...Once it's done, it ought to be shorter than my others were and will be. Marco is a bastard, by the way. A heartless, unrelenting jerk, so I guess the purpose of this story is making him turn around. Angie ought to teach him a lesson or to.

He'd lost consciousness once more at some point between she whoever-she-was had tried to pull him up or get him to his feet or just drag him along and when she slammed the door to what must have been her apartment. Smart girl for taking in stray gangsters, he thought sardonically. It wasn't the only thing on his mind, just the first thing he thought of. He felt like his leg had been ripped off and his chest was caving in so he was glad that she'd just resorted to pulling him after her by his shoulders instead of trying to make him walk, being that she apparently just had to do something anyway. The door slamming was what woke him, it hurt his ears too so he undoubtedly flinched. The instinct his body wanted to follow was get the fuck out of there, but it proved more than difficult with a head ache like the one he had. Instead, so save her having to drag him anymore—the motion was wreaking havoc on his ass anyway—he started to pull himself up. So stupid, his mind snapped, You're a failure and a loser. Couldn't even kill that rat fuck Leon after all that confidence you had. It was embarrassing that the moment he stood, he fell back again, though she did managed to get a chair under him.

A light flicked on, and he closed his eyes, hoping that his head ache wouldn't worsen, but it did anyway. He deserved the pain though. In fact, he deserved to be six feet under right now. He'd fucked up—Leon would have been dead (should have been dead) if…if what? It didn't really matter right now.

"I'm not going to bother you about the fight…" That lady was talking again with that feminine quality of voice that struck him as odd. Strangely, he found that the tone—different from the rough men's voices he was used to hanging around with—soothed his pounding head a bit. "...but will you at least tell me your name?"

Just when he opened his eyes to look at her, all he got was a damp rag coming at him and pressing against the cut on his head. It stung like hell. "Fuck! That hurts!" Immediately, he tried to push it away, get the sting off, make it stop burning.

"You want to get an infection?" He just glared at her. "I've never met anyone named 'fuck' before. You're mother name you that or your father?"

She tried again, like she was determined to torture him or piss him off, but he stubbornly swatted her hand away. With a sigh, she tried yet again; he grabbed the towel and yanked on it to take it away. "Stop acting like a baby!" she snapped, determined to take care of the bloody mess that he was whether he liked it or not. She tugged it back with more force than most women he's known openly displayed and then threw it in his face.

Letting out an excruciating holler and flinching violently to get that stupid thing as far away from him as possible, he made his chair screech back a few inches. He lifted his hands to his face to gently ease the sting of rubbing alcohol off his skin. "What the hell are you trying to do to me, Jesus! Lay off for a second, will you?" The cold glare he gave didn't faze her in the least. "Who are you?"

"My name is Angie," she said stiffly, returning his leer with her own fiery one. "And you?"

"Marco."

A trigger clicked in her mind—probably making a loud snapping noise, she was sure of it—and she barely contained her gasp. "Marco Vindetti." Wasn't that just wonderful? Of all the lowlife mobsters she just had to offer help to, this happens to be Marco the Malignant. She'd never actually seen him before, but she'd heard a lot from Archie when they were going out (the short time that they dated). Then there was the other rumor she'd come by. "You're the guy who killed Leon's brother…"

In a strained movement, he sat straight up, his entire body tense and ready to run if need be. Both of them stared each other down in the tense silence that followed, Angie clenching her fists and Marco narrowing his eyes. "Yeah? Where'd you hear that?" He was in no state to run anywhere, and they both knew that—he probably wouldn't make it to the door.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter. Just explains why you're being so difficult." Angela snatched up the cloth and held it casually. "I mean, heck, you're Marco Vindetti. You get everything handed to you. Never had anyone tell you what to do, have you? Now let me clean that crusty crap off your face. The more you piss me off, the more this is going to hurt." She ignored his snarling expression and reached over to wipe at that stubborn blood splotch on his forehead. This time, however, he just flinched and took deep breath. "See, it's not so bad." He growled something quietly on an exhalation. "What was that?"

"Why did you help me?" He repeated harshly, sounding like he was pissed at having to say it again. As cliché as the phrase looks on paper, nothing about the way he said it was in any way so. The tone to his voice—aside from his indignant attitude toward being asked to say things twice—was almost indifferent and close to…a sort of childlike curiosity. "You could've ignored me, like anyone would've told you to. Pulling shit like this—taking some strange guy to your home—that's enough to get you killed."

Folding the towel to use a clean portion, she dabbed at his lip, barely noticing the way his fingers gripped the seat beneath him. "You make it sound like you care," she shot back.

Contempt was the only thing he let show on his façade—I mean aside from the obvious things like bruises—proving that he did not. "Try again."

"You nearly pulled off my skirt. Ignoring you was out of the question." His ear looked like it had almost been cut off, and there was most likely a piece missing. She turned his head to clean it, fingers gentle and even caring—though that was hardly a feeling she directed toward Marco so much as the fact that he was a human being and she had a heart. "Besides, I couldn't leave you out there, no matter who you turned out to be." Looking down, Ange saw his scabbed knuckles crack and start to bleed again. "Did you fight with Leon, then?"

"Yes!" The fire flared in Marco and raged with all the intensity of a gas explosion. His voice was borderline terrifying. "I almost had the mother fucker. I had my knife against his throat, but he just wouldn't die. A half inch lee-way and he would be lying with the rest of those poor bastards out there, and you wouldn't be fucken babying me."

She ignored the fact that he rolled his eyes when she picked up his hand to attend to it as well. In ignoring him, she didn't notice that he also continued to stare at her with something like loathing interest. Just another pretty face, he assured himself. And he did admit that she was pretty. From his experience, however, pretty meant bitchy—and he knew already that she was a bitch. Strong-willed, talkative, risk-taking but she was still a bitch. He barely noticed the tingle of that alcohol as he was sizing her up. Maybe five foot eight…hate tall women. Her breasts don't look that big and she needs an update on what to wear if she wants to stop getting weird looks. And what kinda name is Angie…Probably short for Angela, but that means angel and she definitely ain't no angel.

"Must hurt your pride, me wiping your face, acting like your mother. Just a stab in the balls, right?"

"You're lucky I don't feel like beating the shit out of you."

"Even if you did, you wouldn't get very far," she snapped.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."

"You're right about the 'big' part."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" The way he just smirked cheekily told her that he was trying to get a rise out of her, so she took a deep breath and decided to ignore it. "Whatever…You can stay here until you're feeling better—" As she paused, her attention was severed down to his jeans and she looked at the long blood stain that ran down his thigh. "And until you can use this leg again." This wasn't an offer or request in the way it came out. "Can" didn't mean he was able to but that he was going to. She was giving a demand—he didn't take too kindly with following orders. "Don't argue. I'm sure there are plenty of families of dead people that will be wanting your head, so just don't argue."

Marco didn't take too kindly to threats either, so he took complete advantage of her preoccupation with examining his leg. As quick as a flash, he wrapped one hand around her wrist and the other gripped at her throat—the thumb putting just enough pressure on her jugular to get his point across. She reacted just as quick, much to his surprise, by reaching out blindly and grabbing the first thing on him that her free hand came in contact with. He winced when she yanked on his hair, but didn't let go. Just tightening his grasp on her arm until blood oozed from his knuckles and seeped between his fingers, he showed her just how pissed he was.

Of course, Angie struggled and squirmed, whining in pain and discomfort—and only a tad bit of fear at that relentless, determined glare Marco put her under. "Yeah, good idea, try to kill me," she choked out sarcastically. "Did you get out of jail what a week ago? Real good way to stay out."

A vicious sneer contorted his face. Who the hell does she think she is? Marco wanted so much to just squeeze and squeeze hard, but (and he only begrudgingly admitted this) she was right. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown back in the joint after so short of freedom. He pushed his thumb a bit harder into her soft, little throat making her whine louder. It would have been so easy… With an angry growl, he pushed her back roughly.

Angie ended up falling back on her rump, holding her sore neck and taking deep breaths to make up for the minutes before when she wasn't getting enough. Stupid man, she wanted to say, but she knew better. That wouldn't make this situation any better. Still, she wasn't going to sit by and let him push her around like that in her own house, so she stood before him and smacked him square across the face. Much to her surprise, he let his head fall to the side and didn't look up again. "Don't you dare…" she began, but she didn't go on.

"What? Dare me, I like it!" The look he gave her next was more frightening than the glare he'd used before. He had a startlingly calm, cool tone and face.

"I cant…You're—how are you such a—!?" Clapping a hand over her mouth because this was getting her absolutely nowhere that she needed to be, she forced herself to stop. Be a better person, she urged herself, Why does God make that so hard!? With deep breaths, she calmed herself enough to speak again. "Just shut up and take off your pants?"

"Say again?"

Angie rolled her eyes, knowing that because he was a man, some sexual thought was going through his head at the mention of that "oh so naughty" word pants. Turning on heel—to express her disinterest—she walked around the counter that closed off her kitchen. "I said to take off your pants. There's a cut or something on your leg."

"I ain't wearing boxers."

Stopping on a dime, she paused before commenting. "And by that I assume you mean you aren't wearing briefs either…"

Immediately, a cheeky grin plastered itself across his maw. He hadn't noticed her kitchen before and it struck him as odd—succeeding in severing his tender attention span for a moment. Wonder where that came from, he thought. The room had the bare necessities of a kitchen: a fridge, a stove, cupboard and counter space, and a sink. Jesus, and it's Periwinkle Blue. He abhorred that color. Just as that crossed his mind, he remembered the matter at hand.

"Still want to see what I got to offer?" He inquired audaciously.

His snickering just made her lean more heavily on the blue tile counter in the mental agony he was putting her through. He just had to be so difficult with everything! Of course, she really didn't want to see that. For a long time, she has had a great distaste for the male genitalia and he wasn't making that any better for her. "No, I really don't want to see whatever you keep in there, but you still need to lose the Levi's." She reached up into the cabinet above the sink and got down a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide.

"You do it."

"I-I beg your pardon?" she asked, turning back to look at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

Annoyance laced his features at being asked to repeat himself, but only for a moment. "If they need to come off so badly, you do it."

That brought her just so close to smacking him a good one right then and there, but she really loathed violence so she contented herself with imagining it. Besides, she didn't want to mess up that face she'd just taken so much time to clean. "You've got to be kidding me." By his lithe, little smirk, he wasn't.

He just sat back, rubbing his head as though it hurt—the spot in his hair that she'd clung to when he tried to throttle her—while still grinning snidely. It was a challenge, he was definitely trying to test her, get her to do something stupid like hit him again. Angie went around the counter again, narrowing her gaze every just so to get the point through his skull that she was not amused.

She wasn't going to give in. She set out to help and the fact that he was a heartless bastard who probably didn't deserve it just made her want to spite him and help him anyway. She wanted to show him that no matter what his attitude was about it and no matter what a jerk he was that she was strong enough to take it and dish it back at him. And how…oh how she would. Grabbing a large hand towel from the rack by the stove, she went up to him and reached for his belt. Keeping her eyes on his, she worked the buckle loose without looking, sill holding the towel in her hand. Then that came undone, the button-up fly was next and she did that quickly enough. He hesitated before lifting his hips so she could pull the jeans off.

"Here, cover yourself," she snapped, tossing the towel at him while turning away to fold his pants.

Shaking his head—about to laugh at her ridiculous attitude—he laid the towel over his lap. "How old are you?" Yes, he thought she was childish and immature for avoiding it in that manner.

"Ninety-three," she replied calmly, almost making him believe she was serious for a moment. Then she smirked wryly. "Don't you know it's rude to ask a lady her age?"

"I ain't asking a lady, I'm asking a girl."

A pause gave her time to contain the sour, dark feeling that sank into her gut. He's not worth it, she reminded herself, He's a tiny, simple man, and he's not worth it. Taking a deep, strained gulp of air, she kneeled down in front of him to examine that large gash that tore across his thigh. Luckily there wasn't anything like splinter in the wound, because she really didn't want to go picking shit out of his bloody flesh with a pair of tweezers. One of her hands, the one that had rested at the top of the cut, accidentally bumped against that towel and she immediately pulled it back.

"A bit touchy, aren't you?"

And that was it. She stood and glared viciously at him, as though she really had the intent to do some damage—whatever damage she could have done. There was this flicker in her eye that he couldn't really distinguish (was it fear, anger, disgust?) and it did manage to set him off ease. As he watched her pick up that bottle, he knew her exact plan. Marco gripped the seat of his chair and braced himself as she unscrewed the top and poured that burning, fucking liquid onto his already sore, fucking leg. People upstairs probably heard his loud, tortured shout.

Please Review if you love me!! (You know you do!)