Not So Perfect

Nightmare

    Angela doesn't mind being carried up the stairs into Tony's apartment. In fact, it's a welcome reprieve. It's the stares, the judging eyes of the other students, that make her want to disappear. She buries her face in his chest, a desperate attempt to shield herself from their scrutiny. The moment the door clicks shut behind them, she finally exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"What did you tell Maggie to borrow her car?" she asks, her voice muffled against his shirt, a flicker of guilt mixing with her relief.

"That you were having an allergic reaction," Tony replies, gently lowering her onto the couch. "I'm going to make you something to eat."

Angela watches him move towards the kitchen, a strange mix of disbelief and hesitant gratitude swirling within her. She'd asked him to bring her here, to his apartment, a desperate, impulsive plea born of fear. And he'd agreed, without hesitation, without even questioning her motives. A temporary sanctuary.

Her gaze drifts towards her bag, lying innocently on the floor, as the insistent ringing of her other phone pierces the quiet. Him. Not her father. She knows the different ringtones.

"It might be our dad," Tony says, pausing in the kitchen, his brow furrowed slightly.

Angela shakes her head, her eyes fixed on the bag, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. The ringing stops, and she releases a shaky breath, but her eyes remain glued to the bag, anticipating the inevitable call. She can't answer. Not now. Not when she's so vulnerable. As predicted, the phone rings again, its insistent buzz a stark reminder of the danger she is in, the danger she's brought here. 

Tony returns, two plates in hand. He offers her one, placing the other on the table. He sits down by her feet, his expression gentle, almost... protective.

"Eat," he says, his voice soft but firm. "You need your strength to get better."

Angela picks at the sandwich, her appetite nonexistent. She can't believe Tony hasn't asked her anything. Doesn't he want to know why she's here, why she's so terrified? Part of her wants to tell him everything, to unload the burden she's been carrying, but the fear of what he would do if he found out keeps her silent.

She manages to eat half the sandwich before her stomach rebels, the food a heavy, unwanted weight. Tony has turned on the television, a history show playing in the background, the droning narration a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. When he notices she isn't finishing her sandwich, he simply takes it and eats it himself, his movements quiet and unhurried. The silence in the room is thick with unspoken questions, a fragile truce hanging in the air, a silent agreement to ignore the elephant in the room. She's hiding, and Tony knows it, even if he doesn't know why.

"Anthony, why are you so nice to me?" she asks, breaking the silence that hangs heavy in the room.

"Why not?" Tony answers, his gaze meeting hers.

"Seriously, why?" she presses, genuinely curious.

Tony turns to look at her, his expression thoughtful. Angela is genuinely perplexed. She's been consistently rude, dismissive, yet here he is, the only one offering her sanctuary. He's trying to comfort her, to give her space, all at the same time.

"You're my tesoro," he replies, a playful glint in his eyes.

Angela glares at him, and he bursts into laughter, loud and unrestrained. She kicks him lightly with her foot, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Now, she's the one laughing, a small, genuine sound that breaks through the tension. He glares back at her, a mock-serious expression on his face.

"That's for laughing at me," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Not my fault you don't know Spanish, muñeca," Tony says, pulling himself back onto the couch.

"Well, it's not my fault my dad never taught me," she retorts, the playful banter a temporary, fragile shield against the fear that gnaws at her insides.

"He probably thinks Spanish just seeps into your brain, like magic," Tony says, a playful smirk twisting his lips. "Like, poof, you're fluent!" He snaps his fingers for dramatic effect.

Angela rolls her eyes, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, right. More like poof, Dad's disappointed."

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the easy banter a welcome distraction. The history show drones on in the background, a low, monotonous hum that strangely soothes her frayed nerves. Angela finds herself relaxing, just a fraction, pushing the gnawing fear into a dark, locked corner of her mind.

"What time is it?" she asks, her voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming exhaustion.

Tony glances at his watch. "Almost midnight. You should probably get some sleep."

A wave of weariness washes over her, heavier than she anticipates. She hadn't realized how completely drained she was, how much energy she was expending just to keep the fear at bay.

"Where am I going to sleep?" she asks, a hint of apprehension creeping into her voice. She doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think about anything.

"My room," Tony says, standing up, his movements decisive. "I'll take the couch. It's no big deal."

"No, I can take the couch," Angela protests, the thought of accepting his bed making her squirm with discomfort. It feels too... close. Too vulnerable.

"Don't be ridiculous," Tony says, his voice firm but gentle, brooking no argument. "You're the one who's sick. Besides, it's more comfortable."

He leads her to his room, a small, sparsely furnished space, a faint, clean scent of his cologne lingering in the air. He's already turned down the covers, the sheets crisp and inviting.

"You sure?" she asks, lingering in the doorway, her gaze darting around the room, a flicker of unease she tries to suppress. It's just a room. A safe room.

"Go to sleep, Angela," he says, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

He closes the door gently, leaving her alone in the quiet room. Angela hesitates, her hand hovering over the light switch. The darkness feels... threatening. She leaves the bedside lamp on, a small, warm glow against the encroaching shadows, a childish comfort. She undresses quickly, her movements stiff and awkward, and slides beneath the covers, pulling them up to her chin. The sheets are soft and warm, but she can't shake the feeling of unease that lingers in the air, a sense of being watched, of being trapped. She curls into a tight ball, her body tense, her mind racing. Even here, in this temporary sanctuary, she can't fully escape the fear, the knowledge that she's only delaying the inevitable. She's just pushing it all aside, like a child hiding under a blanket, pretending the monsters aren't real.

The dim light did little to dispel the heavy dread that clung to Angela. Her sleep was a turbulent sea of nightmares, distorted faces and whispered threats, leaving her gasping for air. She'd wake, heart pounding, scanning the room for a danger that wasn't there, yet felt so real.

His voice, a chillingly sweet echo in her dreams, sent shivers down her spine. Each nightmare, a replay of his commands, amplified her fear. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the terror persisted.

A soft whimper escaped her, a raw sound of fear. She couldn't endure this constant terror.

A gentle knock startled her. "Angela?" Tony's voice, soft and concerned, broke the silence.

She couldn't answer.

The door creaked open, and Tony entered, a dark silhouette against the hallway light. He sat on the edge of the bed, his presence quiet and concerned.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

Angela shook her head, unable to meet his gaze.

After a moment, she sobbed, turning to him, her eyes filled with fear. "I can't sleep."

Tony slid into bed beside her, his body a warm, solid presence. He didn't touch her, didn't speak. He simply offered silent comfort.

Angela curled into his side, seeking warmth and solidity. The darkness felt less threatening with him there. She drifted into a fitful sleep, the nightmares still present, but muted.