When you’re called on as an emergency contact, you go in to the situation expecting that something had gone wrong. You have time to ready yourself with the possibility that you might be faced with something that’s not pleasant or that you need to put on your serious face. Angelo hadn’t been mentally prepared for this… this horror show, though.

Standing in the doorway, the courier looks past his house-sitting partner and into the depths of the fancy home that they had been put in charge of – it’s a problem, alright.

Just beyond the door lies the first sign that this was merely the beginning, vomit sprayed in the carpet and stinking like it had been there for a while. He’s glad then that he has a strong stomach because if this was left here for who knows how long, then there was no telling just what else Chryssa had waiting for him. Angelo was used to dealing with his siblings back home, used to keeping a straight face as the annoyance bubbled as he picked up after them but as he steps over the sick to plunge himself into the disaster zone, Angelo’s eye may have given a suspect twitch of weakening resolve.

Vomit may not make him nauseous but the thought of losing his pay made Angelo almost want to hurl.

“I don’t know if I should be impressed that one person can make this kind of mess or…” He trails off as he accidently kicks a can of soda with the toe of his trainer, last dregs splattering over the wall. Shit.

Chryssa had certainly been busy, that was for sure. Forts and trash coating the front rooms, like she had been hibernating for all of winter, rather than just the few days since they had last swapped over. Maybe he is a little impressed, in a frustrated and slightly desperate kind of way.

“Tomorrow? You kidding me? What the Alolan villa too boring for them?”

It sinks in, blue eyes widening before drifting towards the teenager with a narrowed gaze, who smiled and curled carefully intentional words into the stinking hallway; a demon with an angelic face. “Oh, really?” Angelo steels himself and returns fire, his own mouth pulling at the corners with stubborn, wry resolve. “Whose fault was it, then? Purugly thought he’d whip up pancakes for the two of you as a midnight snack in the pillow fort?” Whatever it was, it was probably a pile of ash in the pan by the smell of it.

Angelo tastes the threat in the air and although he loathes to admit it; Chryssa has him. No way can he leave this place, he’d have nightmares about the owner returning home and threatening to charge him for a clean-up service.

“You sure know how to twist someone’s arm. Come on then,” he sighs, shrugging his backpack and jacket off his shoulders until he’s in his t-shirt, throwing them down in a sparse clean corner near the front door. “But I am not cleaning the sick. That’s all on you, Ms Homewrecker.” He shoots her a sharp grin as he walks past on his way to the cupboard where the cleaning products were stored; no way was he going to cave on that one.

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All on his own, Angelo slips away towards the kitchen to survey the damage. If Chryssa was listening carefully enough (or if she wasn’t scrubbing that carpet hard enough) she may have heard a frustrated sigh, faint like a ghostly wail through the wall that sounded suspiciously along the lines of: “Latios, Latias… help me.”

Besides from the general mess, something that Angelo was more than confident that he could handle, there was also a suspiciously large quantity of eggs crammed onto the kitchen table in a haphazard tower. Blue eyes narrow, quizzical and unsure whether he really wants to know where exactly she had managed to secure them all; let alone why or how much it must have cost her. Angelo takes a little peek in the fridge regardless and finds that his housesitting partner is, in fact, telling the truth. There’s eggs in the fruit drawers, piled high enough to block out the light and rammed in every nook and cranny in the door shelving. Angelo closes it again without a word.

“I like eggs. Do you like eggs?” Angelo asks, raising a brow as he looked over his shoulder at the sudden visitor, punctuating his words in a rhetorical question. “Or are you gathering resources to enact some sort of egging revenge on the home of an unfortunate victim? If you are, I think they’re going to be sorry.” He moves away from the fridge then, gaze dragging from Chryssa towards the stove, where the remnants of the destruction sat radiating chaotic, ashen energy – still smoking and like it had been run over by a truck.

Angelo runs the pan under the water and throws her melted artwork in the trash. Hiding the evidence of her misadventure.

“I know it must be really interesting to watch a guy wash the dishes,” he says next, stepping towards the sink piled high with dirty plates and utensils. “But this isn’t a spectator sport, you know. You’re in here, you clean.” He throws a dishtowel at her without waiting for a response, message clear – if you want to stay and chat then you’re the designated dryer.

There’s a dishwasher amongst all the fancy kitchen equipment and electronic utensils in the kitchen but Angelo had never used one before, so he falls back on old, reliable manual labour…

Dishes moved onto the counter, Angelo begins to fill up the sink with hot water and squirts a generous amount of soap into the mix; bubbles beginning to rise in a mountain of scented foam. If he was going to be stuck on chore duty today, then he'd rather make the most of it; it'll make the time go quicker and hopefully the frustration sitting in his stomach will ebb, especially with something else to focus on. So the man leans over the sink to turn on the radio sitting on the windowsill, filling the kitchen with an unfamiliar but peppy jingle.

“Theoretically – if we were to cook them – how do you like your eggs?” If they were going for free then Angelo wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to fill his stomach. They'd probably need it after a frantic New Year clean... 

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“You know you’ve got a pretty creative imagination, right?”

Despite all of the adlibbing, he and Chryssa work through the washing up pretty quickly, making a formidable team when it came to domestic duties. While the teenager dried and practiced her accents – making Angelo laugh on numerous occasions – he washed, singing or humming along to familiar tunes when they popped up on the radio. He’s not quite as talented as Chryssa though, quality of his vocals self-sabotaged by how he pointedly puts too much emphasis on certain words or unabashedly fumbles over the lyrics; getting most of them wrong.

“Scrambled works. I like ‘em baked… In a pan, with tomatoes and-“ he pauses before he goes off on a tangent about breakfast options. Scrambled eggs with bread worked, either way they’d have to eat them all quickly, either before they go off or the homeowners return to find their house had been turned into an underground egg dealership.

Before Angelo can confirm that he could make her some sandwiches before he kicks her out of the house later (no way is he leaving Chryssa alone and in charge before the real residents come back), she diverts the conversation, Purugly making his grand appearance. Angelo had almost forgotten about him, the overweight pokemon had been quick to greet him at the door on the other instances he arrived, screeching for food. To be fair, he had been a little distracted…

“That’s a very specific guess, Chryssa.” Angelo comments dryly, suspicion apparent as he wipes his bubbly hands off with a towel. There was definitely something in the pool. “Come on Purugly, let’s see if Little Timmy is stuck in the pool and needs our help.”

Pushing open the backdoor, he leads the small party out into the lavish backyard, ignoring the expensive decking furniture and sculptures shining in the sun as blue eyes focus on the water. There’s a Lycanroc splashing around in the Hoenn heat; panting and letting out woofing noises as it spots the Purugly. It doesn’t seem like the cat is too pleased to see the dog, either; considering it puffs up to twice its already ginormous size.

“Okay my bad, I think this guy's actually big enough to eat Little Timmy…” Casting a quick look to Chryssa, searching over her expression to see if she had known about this – if the Lycanroc was hers – he then turns back to the canine as it tries to pull itself up onto the side of the pool with its paws, only to slip back in with a splash. They couldn't leave it in there, not when it was clearly struggling... “Could you get Purugly inside? I don't think he's going to be much help on this mission.” Angelo walks up to the edge and crouches down, hand reaching out to try and haul the tired canine out by the scruff, all the while being careful of the spikes.

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