In the End

Donkey Work

He sleeps the best he ever has in quite a long time, and when he comes to consciousness, everything feels as if it is in place for the first time. Then everything clicks, and he remembers.

Andy. Andy had told him to come home last night. Andy Barclay had told him to come home last night. He'd told him to come home. And he'd done it. The thought rattles around in his mind for a minute, and he tries to remember all the points leading up to that one, that one pivotal moment. His mind is reeling, and he sits up from where he'd been lying, hands already in his hair. Nothing quite makes sense, but it is all here, in any case.

He is lying on Andy's couch, which was better than the last time he'd woken up here. The last time, he'd been on Andy's bed, with Andy. He shook the thought away, disgusted at himself.

Andy, for as much as he was in his thoughts just now, is nowhere around the apartment. At least, not in any of the common areas.

He hops down from the couch, already familiar with the place, more than he'd like to admit to anyone, including and especially himself. He needs the restroom, yet another terrible side effect of him slowly becoming human again. He decides it's not the worst of his transition, all things considered. He slides into the small guest bath on the side, not wanting to risk waking Andy if he is in his room. He doesn't know why he cares. He's stopped bothering a long time ago.

He pisses into the toilet, and he does know why he cares. He knows more than ever. He knows now, especially after what had happened merely hours ago. He washes his hands, and tries to wash away the thoughts with it.

For the first time in a long time, he had slept really well. And he hates this even more. It just adds to everything he wishes he could avoid for the rest of his life. He walks out of Andy's guest bathroom instead, and walks through Andy's hallway, on Andy's floor, and into Andy's kitchen, where Andy himself seems to materialize before him, finally awake, messing around with his sink and his dishes. He looks like he is suffering from a severe hangover. Chucky hopes he is.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, and he's already grinning, and his heart is already pounding with the adrenaline that he always feels when Andy comes into view, and he hates himself. He hates himself. "Look who finally decided to come out and play."

Andy rolls his eyes and sets his cup down. He doesn't even turn to look. "Get out," he says, waving to the door. "Get out, or do your job."

"I think you already made it pretty clear last night that you don't want me gone," Chucky growls, and even though he says it with religion, there is no faith behind it. He grasps at the edge of one of the seats near the island, and clambers up against it, his breath already labored. He grunts and pushes himself upward onto the seat and then climbs onto the counter, and Andy sees him. He exhales angrily and turns away, walking over to the cabinets over his stove, pretending to be occupied with something.

"Real mature, Andy," Chucky says, and Andy ignores him. Chucky feels a childish anger rising in himself, and he's a hypocrite to accuse Andy of any mental maturity, but he does so all the same. He just needs something from Andy. "If wasn't looking at you, I'd say I was talking to the shitty little brat again, and not a man."

"I'm going to kill you," Andy says, finally, and Chucky feels the wave of relief, and anger, and hatred, and a mixture of so many other things start to turn within him again, and he can't help a grin from giddily spreading across his face. Andy slams the counter door shut and turns to look at him. Chucky sits on his counter, as if he belongs here, and he waits to see something in Andy's eyes, and he is finally, finally, satisfied. He can almost feel the anger bubbling inside of Andy. "And this time, I'm going to make sure you're not coming back."