Title: Strange Fascination
by magique
Fandom(s): Angela Anaconda
Pairing(s): Angela/Nanette
Genre/Rating: General, future!fic/M
Word Count: 732
Summary: Some things never change. Others really, really do.
Warnings/Spoilers: Bit of coarse language. Um, sorry about your childhood?
Notes: I wrote a sort of rough version of this on impulse for a writer's meme and liked it, so I've just fixed it up a bit. And, yeah, I feel like maybe I should feel guilty or weird about this, but somehow I just...don't. I have aged the girls up though.
Title stolen from, appropriately, Changes by David Bowie.

Everyone sort of assumed they'd stop hating each other eventually, like it'd been a stupid phase or something. That maybe they'd get to high school and think that, God, hadn't they just been such silly kids. That, even if they were never going to be friends, they might have ended up passing each other in the halls without a glance.

But, hey, they are in high school now and guess what? Angela still hates Nanette. Angela probably hates Nanette more. And Nanette déteste vraiment's Angela, or whatever the hell the French is for that. Because even if Nanette can't get away with saying that oui, oui means get out of the way, loser anymore and doesn't need to, she's still an enormous bitch. And Angela might not violate English syntax quite the way she used to, but she's pretty firmly still a bit of a weirdo who gets lost in daydreams too often.

So, yeah, they still clash. They aren't friends and they can't seem to pass each other without hurling an insult along the way. They just do it differently now. The insults are cleverer, better designed to hurt, and the fights can get brutal—and, hey, where did prissy little Nanette learn to hold her own against a girl with two older brothers?

Gina Lash moved into the Stop Fighting and Get Over It camp back when they started high school (and she took Johnny Abatti and Gordie Rhinehart with her, dirty player that she is), and she tends to spend at least half of their lunch breaks trying to scare Angela away from it.

She can't get Gina to stop, because offering her a few snacks or even free lunch for a week isn't enough to distract her anymore. But Angela is getting so sick of Gina's cries of UST. 'Sexual tension' and 'Nanette' really shouldn't ever be in the same sentence (let alone paragraph!), especially since Angela's pretty sure she doesn't need Gina saying anything to be scared that something's going on behind all the nastiness. Not with the direction her imagination's been dragging her where Nanette's concerned for longer than Angela can remember, and that's just dirtysickwrong and when did this happen?

Nanette's been flirting with Johnny like her life depends on it since the middle of ninth grade, and Angela can't really tell whether it's because Johnny sort of grew into a young Uncle Nicky—and Uncle Nicky still gets the ladies—or if it's something else. She doesn't like that she can't stop her brain wishing for the second choice.

But Angela's never been the brightest one in class, or even her group of friends what with Gina and Gordie around, so sometimes she doesn't know a dumb impulse from a good one—or even know when one's coming. It does kind of work in her favour though every now and then. Like, oh, the day Nanette's goading her after detention, again, one afternoon during senior year.

Nanette mouths off, whatever it is isn't ever really important enough to remember, even if Angela often finds herself contemplating every insult while drifting off into fantasy-land. Probably weirdo again or loser or something about money or in French or something, and Angela shoves her against a locker, ready to punch her or bite out a sharp reply or be totally normal about this, except she kind-of-maybe-oh-shit leans forward and kisses her instead.

Except—except Nanette doesn't shriek, "Get off me, you creepy lesbo!" She just blinks and then her eyes go as wide as Angela's feel, and. And then they shut, tightly like what she's doing is freaking her out and she can't bare to look but she, God, she wants to. And her mouth presses back, presses against Angela's, and opens. So Angela opens hers too, not wanting to be outdone. Never wanting to be outdone, not by Nanette. Not by Nanette, who is a cold bitch with too-perfect hair and too-perfect skin and a too-perfect figure and, it turns out, soft lips and a warm, wet mouth.

Nanette's hand snakes into her hair and tugs, and Angela pushes Nanette harder against the locker because there's a handle behind her and if Angela's gonna be in pain then Nanette will be too. And Angela thinks, sort of vaguely, through this and through a gasp (hers) and a moan (Nanette's), that her imagination? Has nothing on this.